TRANSLATIONS 



ALEXAKDEB PETOFI. 






TRANSLATIONS 

FROM 

ALEXANDER PETOFI, 

THE MAGYAE POET. 



SIE JOHN BOWEING, LL.D., F.E.S., 

CORRESPONDENT OP THE HUNGARIAN ACADEMY, ETC., ETC. 

LONDON: 

TRUBNER & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

1866. 



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HERTFORD : 

PRINTED BY STEPHEN ATJSTIN. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE - ... 1 

INTRODUCTION ... ,.. 15 

ISTOK, THE FOOL 17 

JANOS, THE HERO 53 

PERPLEXITY Ill 

DREAMING 112 

BRIGHT EYES 112 

NIGHT 113 

TO MY HORSE ... 114 

THE TIRED STEED 115 

WINE AND SONG 116 

FAITHFULNESS 117 

NOON-DAY 118 

THE BETYAR 119 

TO AN UNJUST JUDGE ... 120 

DRINK! 122 

ERLAU ECHOES 123 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AFTER A REVEL 120 

TIPPLING 127 

MUSINGS 128 

MASTER PAUL 130 

THE GOOD TEACHER 132 

CYPRESS LEAVES 135 

MORE LOVE 139 

MAY-NIGHT 140 

IGNORANCE OF LOVE 141 

A VOW 142 

SORROW AND JOY 143 

FRIENDSHIP 143 

THE GRAVE 144 

INDIFFERENCE 144 

THE WORLD'S SLAVERY 145 

SPRING 145 

HUNGARIAN PLAINS 146 

THE WOODS 149 

THE CLOUDS 150 

THE STORK 152 

THE PUSZTA IN WINTER 158 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

WINTER WORLD 161 

THE SPRING OF 1849 165 

PLANT FLOWERS UPON MY GRAVE ... 167 

POWER OF LOVE 169 

HOPE 170 

BLISS 173 

HEART FLOWERS 174 

MARRIAGE DAY 175 

ERDOD 177 

UNDYING CERTAINTIES 178 

A LONGING 180 

DOUBLE FEELINGS 182 

THE MANIAC 184 

ONE ONLY THOUGHT • 188 

HOMER AND OSSIAN 190 

SERENE HAPPINESS 192 

WIFE AND SWORD " 196 

NIGHTINGALES AND LARKS • 198 

ANTICIPATION 201 

EVENING AT HOME 202 

SOLITUDE 205 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TO A FRIEND 206 

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE 207 

WINTER-NIGHT 209 

MY PRAYER 211 

TO MY FATHER 213 

I AND THE SUN 215 

EVERY FLOWER 216 

CHRISTMAS 217 

THE IMPATIENT MOON 219 

MOTTO 222 

ANOTHER YEAR 222 

THE NOBLEMAN 224 

TO MANY HUNGARIAN ABSENTEES 225 

OUR COUNTRY ... ., 227 

HISTORY OF THREE HEARTS 229 

THE HUNGARIAN NATION 233 

THE KINGDOM OF LOVE 235 

WORLD'S HISTORY 239 



ALEXANDER PETOFI, 

Whose Hungarian name was Petrovich Sandor, was born at 
Little Koros, in the county of Pesth, at the midnight hour 
which ushered in the year 1823. His father was a butcher 
and small landowner, who changed his abode more than 
once, in Little Rumania, but fixed himself at Szabadssallas, 
to which the poet frequently refers as the home of his 
childhood. The boy, in addition to the ordinary teachings 
of an evangelical school, gave himself up to music and 
drawing, but is not reported to have shown any evidence 
of precocious talent. In 1838, the overflowing of the Danube 
destroyed the little property possessed by his family, and 
reduced them all to poverty. He was sent to the Lyceum 
of the mountain town of Schemnitz. There he began to 
write verses, neglected his studies, was visited by severe 
paternal reproof, and having been captivated by a theatri- 
cal exhibition, joined a German band of travelling actors, 
in which he held the lowest offices alike on the stage and in 
the streets. His father found him out, brought him home, 

1 



2 ALEXANDER PETOFI. 

and committed him to the care of a relation in Stuhlweiss- 
enburg, who soon transferred him to another relative, from 
whom a promise was obtained that he would provide for 
the youth's education. The youth, however, was more re- 
marked for his devotion to Horace than to any other sub- 
ject, and having lost the confidence of his protector, was 
sent as a boarder to (Edenburg, whence he fled from the 
Museum to the barracks, and enlisted as a common soldier. 
He covered the walls with the records, and filled the room 
with the recitals, of his poetry. He had hoped that the 
destination of his regiment would be the Tyrol, and pro- 
jected a flight from thence into Switzerland, his reading of 
ancient history having created in his mind an earnest love of 
republican institutions. But Croatia was the field of service, 
where he remained for nearly two years, — so sad and 
spiritless that a friendly physician obtained his discharge 
as invalided. He went to Papa, intending to perfect his 
education, but was more distinguished by his poetical re- 
citations among the young students than by any progress 
in his own studies. Again the passion for the stage pos- 
sessed him, and in 1842 he joined another troop of come- 
dians. His stage attempts were utter failures, and he 
was reduced to so ragged a condition that he scarcely 
ventured to show himself in the public streets. He 
made his way to Presburg, and sought the means of 
existence as a reporter — the Diet being then sitting — and 
found a friend who gave him some literary recommendf 
tions to Pesth. He obtained some small remuneration fo^ 



ALEXANDER PETOFI. O 

translations from English and French, but again his 
romantic love for the theatre took him to Debreczin, where 
he was even less successful than before, and is said to have 
been put to open shame upon the boards ; but he joined a 
more humble strolling band, who played in the surround- 
ing villages. Returning to Debreczin he met with a former 
schoolfellow, Pakh, known as one of Kossuth's friends, 
who found for him a domicile in the cottage of a widow 
outside the town. He there received an invitation to be 
a contributor to a Pesth newspaper. He welcomed the 
event. Pakh shared with him the whole of his fortune — 
it was two florins. With these he started for the capital, a 
distance of nearly two hundred miles. He was twenty years 
old. He had hidden a volume of manuscript poetry between 
his shirt and his breast ; he wore shoes padded with straw, 
and, carrying a staff in his hand, started for the capital, 
full of dreams for the future. 

Up to this time he had borne the family name of 
Petrovich. When an actor he took the ambitious title 
of Borostyan (Laurel). He had published his first poem 
under the anonyme of " Paul Kis of Penoge ;" he now 
adopted the name of Petofi, which his family accepted, and 
it is a name not likely to die. 

It was in the spring of 1844 that he reached Pesth, com- 
pelled by the overflowing of the Theiss and the desolation 
'of the Puszta plains to go round by way of Erlau. On his 
rrival he found a home in the house of a tailor, and he in- 
troduced himself to Vorosmarty, the then most renowned 



4 ALEXANDER PETOFI. 

of Magyar poets. He was at first coldly received, and pro- 
bably deemed a rude, intrusive lad ; but having consented 
Unwillingly to listen to some of his poetry, Yorosmarty's 
admiration burst out in the exclamation, " Hungary never 
had such lyrics; you must be cared for!" From that 
moment his literary fortune was established — his merits 
recognized. He became the son of his patron's adoption, — 
was received into the literary national circle (Nemzeti Kor) ; 
carried off the prizes of poetry ; and the Society paid the 
expense of publishing his "Versek" (Ofen, 1844). Volume 
succeeded volume from his unwearied pen. He hankered 
still for an actor's reputation, determined to make another 
appeal to the public on the National Theatre, — that 
appeal was final and fatal ; and so abandoning the stage 
he delivered himself over to song. 

His position in Hungary resembled that of Robert Burns 
in Scotland. As the kirk called the Ayrshire bard "profane," 
the dilletanti of Pesth insisted that Petofi was "vulgar." 
The popular voice, awarded him however, more renown 
than dainty critics* were able sensibly to diminish. "He 
never went to bed at night, he never arose in the morning," 
says a contemporary, " without hearing his songs from the 
multitudinous passengers in the public streets." In the very 
theatre where his mimic powers had been put to shame, 
the whole audience afterwards rose at his entrance, and 

* "At last criticism began to notice me," he says in one of his 
private letters, "as a fat ox with his nose in the grass, looks 
amazed on a lark, which trips about and twitters near him." 



ALEXANDER PETOFI. O 

the Eljen (Hail!) was repeatedly reiterated until he took 
his seat. Once in an obscure village in Transylvania, his 
presence was suddenly announced to a regiment of peasant 
soldiers. " Is it the poet ?" was the inquiry, and to the 
affirmative reply every voice re-echoed "All hail ! " 

The political storm which burst out in Central Europe 
in 1848 roused the Magyar spirit, and Petofi was one of 
its most influential and most eloquent representatives. 
Many an harangue he delivered at public assemblies, and 
launched the first newspaper which was emancipated from 
the censorship. In October of that year he joined the 
patriot army, and was made a captain in the Honved bat- 
talion. In the beginning of 1849 he joined Bern, whose ad- 
jutant he became, and whose correspondence he conducted. 
He was present at the fearful slaughter in Segesvar, on the 
following 31st of July. What part he took, if any, in that 
disastrous day, is not certain, but it is believed he was 
trampled to death in the flight and confusion which fol- 
lowed the retreat of the Magyar army. The body was 
never discovered, but was thrown undistinguished, and, pro- 
bably, undistinguishable, into an enormous trench, which 
received the corpses of many hundreds of men who thus 
perished. More than one false Petofi presented himself 
to the Hungarians, and much spurious poetry was pub- 
lished under his name. As the Portuguese believe that 
King Sebastian will re-appear, and lead them forth to 
victory, so Petofi is said by his countrymen, to be "not 
dead, but sleeping." 



b ALEXANDER PETOFI. 

He left a widow — the translator of Andersen's tales — 
since married to Professor Arpad Horvath, a son, and 
a brother (Stephen), who has shown some talent as a 
popular poet. Remenyi, well known to the English court, 
has collected ten thousand florins for the erection of 
a monument to Petofi's memory, and the house in which 
he was born, having been discovered in Little Koros, has 
been purchased, and will be kejjt sacred to his name. 

The longest of his many poetical narratives is " Janos, 
the Hero." " Istok, the Fool," is more natural, but, per- 
haps, less inventive. " The Curse of Love," and " The 
Dream of Enchantment," are full of youthful passion. 
The earliest of his productions was " The Village 
Hammer," which appeared in 1843 ; the last in 1849, a 
fragment — "The Assessor of the Judgment Seat." One 
of them, "The Apostle," was suppressed by Austrian 
authority. 

The titles of his two dramas are, " Tiger and Hyena," 
historical; "The Robber Zold Marczi," a popular play. 

His lyrics are "Cypress Leaves on Etelka's Grave" 
(40) ; " Pearls of Love " (35) ; " Starless Nights ; " 
" Clouds " (60 aphorisms). A first collection, with his 
portrait, consists of 458 poems ; a second collection of 
630 poems. Altogether they make ten volumes, with 
1,775 separate poems. 

He published a prose romance entitled "The Hangman's 
Rope;" three volumes of rural tales, "The Departed," 
"The Grandpapa," and "The Pale Youth and the Blushing 



ALEXANDER PETOFI. 7 

Maiden ;" two volumes of travels, "Journey Notes," and 
"Travelling Letters to Kerenyi;" "Leaves from my Day 
Book;" a collection of critical notices, of which that on 
Shakespeare is most remarkable ; correspondence with 
several of his contemporaries from 1843 to 1848. Prose 
fragments, are " Conversations with Bern," and " Bio- 
graphy of my son, aged seven months." 

From German he translated Matthison's "Elegy," and 
Schiller's "Ideal;" from French, Dumas' "Masked Ball," 
Bernard's "Lovely Woman," Paul de Koch's "Jenny," and 
several of Beranger's Chansons. From the English, James' 
"Robin Hood;" "Fugitives," from Shelley; Ossian's 
"Oithona;" "Coriolanus " and a portion of "Romeo and 
Juliet," from Shakspeare ; and Seneca's Third Letter, 
from the Latin. 

The list is a marvellous one, representing the literary 
labours of less than six years. 

Boswell's devotion to, and prostration before, Dr. John- 
son, led to the production of the most amusing and the 
most instructive of biographies. To the promotion of the 
fame by the circulation of the writings of Petofi an 
Hungarian friend and admirer has dedicated his life. 
With the name of Petofi, that of Kertbeny is associated in 
an ever-during alliance. He had heard some strains from 
the "Versek," and became a worshipper in the temple 
where Petofi had found a shrine. Of his past intercourse 
with Petofi he gives a lively picture. The poet had not 
been previously personally known to his admirer, who de- 



8 ALEXANDER PETOFI. 

fended him from his own self-accusations and criticisms. 
Three years afterwards they met again, when Petofi had 
become a central orb, with many a satellite around. They 
formed the League of the Decemvirs, representing young 
Hungary, who recognized Petofi as their chief, and had 
for their organ the most popular of the Magyar news- 
papers, the Pesti Hirlap. It was established by Kossuth, 
and is now the receptacle of the contributions of some of 
the most distinguished of living Hungarians. Kertbeny 
gives many details of Petofi's mode of life and conversa- 
tion. Of Gothe he said that " his style was cold, marble- 
like, not pictorial." Petofi's habits remind one of the 
wilder freaks of John Wilson. Many ambrosian nights — 
sleepless, discursive, eloquent, impassioned, the youthful 
spirits of Hungary passed together. In the calm days when 
well-established freedom has subsided into a stiff reality, 
we do not easily realise such a whirlwind enthusiasm ; 
as when among the Jacobins in France, the Comuneros 
in Spain, the Carbonari in Italy, the long suppressed spirit 
of liberty broke out in its wild outpourings. 

Of himself Petofi said — " I am but in good and evil an 
essence of the national character. For a drop of otto of 
roses a thousand flowers are crushed, — precious it is and 
fragrant ; but it would be far more so, if you could concen- 
trate the odour and the beauty of every scattered leaf, 
such as you may pluck when fresh and fair, and fling 
about to the wind." He said of his mother — " She was 
full of poetry. I drank it in the milk of her bosom ; I 



ALEXANDER PETOFI, V 

learnt it from her smiles and her tears." It is noteworthy 
that although Petb'fi passed many years of his life as a 
wandering vagabond, no impurity ever soiled his songs, and 
in his more than three thousand poetical compositions — 
unrestrained and passionate as many of them are — there 
is not a scandal-giving line, not an expression which would 
cause a blush to the modesty of a woman, and which might 
not be entrusted to the innocence of a child. When Kert- 
beny was projecting a visit to the ends of the earth, Deak, 
the leading man of Hungary, recommended him to stay at 
home, telling him that to popularise a single song of 
Petofi, was to render a better service to his country 
than to trace the origin of his countrymen to the noblest 
oriental stem. 

The work of translation has been everywhere done, 
everywhere well done, except in England. Dux took the 
lead in Germany in 1845. Henry Heine wrote rapturously 
about the Magyar poet, "whose rustic song was sweeter 
than that of the nightingale ;" and Bettina von Arnim pro- 
claimed him " the most original of lyric poets in the whole 
world's literature. With him will I talk and revel, 
admiring his loving wisdom, his philanthropy, his affection 
for his home, for his father and his mother, and, above all, 
for his patient pride in poverty." In the German album of 
"A Hundred Hungarian Poets," Petofi occupies the highest 
place. Bodenstedt wrote a laudatory preface to Kert- 
beny's version of his writings ; and Alexander Humboldt 
expressed his admiration, that "after many wanderings he 






10 ALEXANDER PETOFI. 

had discovered in his own neighbourhood, a flower so rich 
in beauty, so enduring, so certain to be valued." 

"He," says Varnhagen vou Ense, "is the noblest ex- 
emplification of Gothe's fine thought, 'Youth is drunken- 
ness without wine ;'" and Uhland avowed that old age alone 
had prevented his study of the Magyar language, for the 
sole purpose of enjoying Petofi in his native dress. Grimm 
declares that "Petofi will rank among the very greatest 
poets of all times and tongues." "He first taught what it 
was really to feel the mingling of love and admiration," 
writes Freiligrath. "His political power is as marvellous 
as his personal history," to use the words of Taillandier ; 
and again, " So natural is he, that if every Hungarian 
were a poet he would sing as Petofi sings, — but none 
with so wild and fiery an enthusiasm." Bernard in- 
troduced him into the field of French literature, and 
Beranger expressed a delight that his name should be 
associated with a name so great as that of Petofi. Of the 
Berlin edition of " Lyrics " 6000 copies were sold, and 
were welcomed by laudatory criticisms from some of the 
most trustworthy of German writers. The articles in the 
Revue des deux mondes, on the Hungarian poetry of the 19th 
century, in which Petofi is the salient figure, were col- 
lected in a volume. Hiel published translations in Flemish ; 
Dmochowski, Sabowski, and Madme Prussakawa in Polish ; 
Andersen in Danish ; Palluci in Italian ; while, in Brus- 
sels, Chassin edited a volume, entitled " Petofi, the Poet 
of the Hungarian Revolution." A collection of sixteen 



ALEXANDER PETOFI. 11 

of the most remarkable of his narrative poems has lately 
appeared in Prague, dedicated to the present writer. An 
edition of ten thousand copies is now announced of his 
works by the press of Germany and the United States. 
Bern, dying in Aleppo, requested that his poems should be 
read to him ere he departed ; and the exiles in Hungary 
write from almost all parts of the civilized world that 
they have everywhere found, or everywhere founded, the 
fame of their illustrious countrymen. 

He spoke prophetically when he thus addressed his 
Lyre :— 

Lyre ! let passion shake thy strings ! 
For the songs thy minstrel sings 

Are his last — repeat them ! 
That the eternal mountain's height, — 
That the ages in their flight, — 

Never may forget them. 



13 



PET OFT. 



The splendid sun awaking from the east, 
And to the west descending in its fall ; 

From its benignant rising to its rest, 

Looks down with equal light and love on all. 

So genius glory-circled at its birth, 

And gliding like a lamp of heaven on high, 

Bathes with celestial radiance all the earth, 
Which mirrors back that radiance to the sky. 

Is not the sun a mind — the mind a sun — 

Whose course no arm can stay, no fetters bind ? 

Do not high thoughts like fiery lightnings run, 

Brighten and blaze and beam from mind to mind ? 



14 



PET0FI. 



So when thy Magyar-star, o'er Magyar-land. 

Petofi ! rose to its supernal throne, 
As from a fire-cross lifted by God's hand, 

The rays shone forth and shine as first they shone. 

It was no meteor, for a meteor writes 

No golden lines of glory — read from far — 

But an eternal light amidst heaven's lights, 
And grouped with central stars a central star. 



Claremont, J. B. 

Exeter. 



If the world were a hat, my Hungaria should be 
The wreath that surrounds and adorns it for me. 



PETOFI. 



15 



INTRODUCTION. 

Oft my wandering thoughts, without a mark or vestige, 

Ramble through the world, a mystery and a dream, 

Though they seem enchained by home and country's 

prestige, 

'Tis an idle thought — they are not — they but seem. 

No my songs are nought but rays of moonlight 

streaming 
Through a world of mist, in melancholy's dreaming. 

Better 'twere to dwell, instead of dreams, in sorrow, 
That is something real, — something worth a thought ; 

Why perplex the soul with visions for to-morrow, 
When to-day its councils and its cares has brought ? 

No ! the songs my spirit, overwrought, is uttering, 

Seem like butterflies among the flowerets fluttering. 

Would a maiden wreathe for me a loving garland, 
I would fling my woes into a deep abyss, 

Find a beam of radiance in the starry far land, 
From that maiden's heart extract a dawn of bliss. 

And the songs I sing, should be like buds which June 
time, 

Opens to the sun in nature's light and tune time. 



A 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

Have I then her love ? pour the wine, pour it ! 

Fill it to the brim ! fill it to the brim ! 
Let the sparkles dance in gay rejoicing o'er it ; 

Gladness light the eyes and music tune the hymn ! 
For the song I sing shall all earth's circle brighten, 
As the rainbow's beams the arch of heaven enlighten. 

Oh ! but while I drink, I hear the chains of slavery ; 

Hear the plaints of slaves — and the unemptied glass 
Dash upon the ground — but this is idle bravery ; 

These are worthless wailings — wasted words. Alas ! 
All the songs I sing — are but the utterings clouded, 
Of a sorrowing soul in darkest darkness shrouded. 

So they suffer — millions ! million slaves ! they suffer — 

And they bear the chain — the intolerable chain — 
Has not heaven a hope — a dream of hope to offer ? 
Shall they pray and plead, and pray and plead in 
vain, — 
No! my songs shall wake, while nations shout and 

wonder, 
Liberty and light, in storms of living thunder. 



17 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

One of the great charms of Petofi's poetry is his truthful and 
vivid picturing of the peculiarities of Hungarian life. The wide, 
wild Pusztas, in the hands of most of those who have de- 
scribed them, have been associated with gloomy, dreary thoughts 
of solitude and weariness —vast, interminable wastes, — over which 
here and there are scattered a few wretched, ruined hovels, in- 
habited by a gloomy, ill-clad peasantry ; while the Puszta, as by 
him delineated, becomes a living, breathing, beautiful, and varied 
object, connected with colourings of grandeur, immensity and 
freedom. As the Arabs careering in the desert, to whom 
the streets of a city look like prison walls, he revelled in the 
free air and the rude liberty of the Puszta, which was to him the 
ideal of his emancipated country, and furnished him some of 
the richest materials to feed the imaginings and strugglings of his 
spirit for an anticipated liberty. His " Istok, the Fool," is a 
remarkable exhibition of his passion and his power, which 
gathered its elements out of the Puszta life ; and in the dreaminess 
of a pretended folly, displaying all the heavings of patriotic 
emotion. 

He comes ! lie comes ! he hurries through 

In most bewildered fashion ; 
And how he storms ! who ever knew 

A man in such a passion ? 

He whips his courser fiercely, wild ; 

He drives his spur-points bloody ; 
He pulls the reins — he sweeps the field, — 

His cheeks with fury ruddy. 



18 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

Heyda ! nought stops him in his way, 
No hindrance can restrain him ; 

No barrier there, no toll to pay, — 
Hell's gate would not detain him. 

" Across, across the Puszta wide, — 
None its expanse can measure, — 
There's liberty on every side, 
To right, to left, at pleasure. 

" I'll toss my shako in the air, 
As on my courser dashes ; 
Out of the way ! beware ! beware ! 
Of mud and mire and splashes." 

And while he spoke, the rattling rain 
Came down in cataract-currents, 

And drenched him, — while he curs'd again, 
With its o'erwhelming torrents. 

What did the youngster there, but stand 

As to the spot close fettered ; 
Like Csesar, when in Brutus' hand, 

He saw the glaive that glittered. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 19 

Like Csesar in his mantle clad, 

Which proudly he wrapped round him : 

But fate for our poor pelted lad, 
No covering mantle found him. 

, While he who has a thick, warm fur, 

And is well wrapped within it, 
May scorn the storm, — he need not stir, 

But patient wait — a minute. 

" And thou ! who lingerest thus, I would 
The thunderbolt should smite thee ! 
Fool, as thou art, begone ! no good 
Is waiting to invite thee. 

" But I, — I am a privileged man, 
Baptized in Christian font, I 
Demand a thousand honours, can — 
A thousand prizes count I. 

" I have been drenched enough in rain 
To whiten any Moorman ; 
Yet was I born, and must remain, 
A very, very poor man. 



20 ISTOK. THE FOOL. 

" Let that rain drench my garments thro' 
Torn by the storm I'll wear them : 
Yet this, Philosophy will do — 

' Twill teach me how to bear them. 

" My vest an honest tailor made, 
In his serene enjoyment ; 
But though the bill was never paid, 
The work gave him employment." 

And here the lad laughed out aloud, 
In laughter queer and curious : 

Down fell the waters from the cloud, 
More furious and more furious. 

And calm and patient was the lad, 

Not angry nor offended ; 
It makes the saddest mood more sad 

To mourn what can't be mended. 

And soon the storm-clouds disappeared, 
The floods away were driven ; 

And a bright vision Istok cheered, — 
A rainbow in the heaven. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 21 

" Thou lovely bond ! " the wanderer cried, 
" Life's many hues displaying : 
A peacock stalking in his pride, 
A promised dawn surveying. 

" An arch triumphal, mirroring back 
The sun's victorious glances, 
Scattering the storm-clouds in his track, 
With glorious golden lances. 

" But thou art far,— tho' farther yet 
My home — and I am weary ; 
And soon in night the sun will set, 
And earth be damp and dreary. 

" I am no prophet — yet I dare 
Foretell that pretty maidens 
Will hardly give a listening ear 
This day to my upbraidings. 

" They bear with me, for such a lad 

Would neither harm nor wrong them ; 
I wish that I a stork's wings had 
To carry me among them. 



22 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

" What can I do ? How shall I fare ? 
And who shall me deliver, 
When the dark night shall leave me here, 
In damp and cold to shiver ? 

" They call me fool — no fool am I, 
If, in my helter-skelter, 
I see a cottage where to fly, 
And in it find a shelter. 

"If it should prove a robber's nest, 
Which welcome kind afforded, 
It need not break a miser's rest, 
Whose gold is safely hoarded. 

" The chimney smokes — the hearth looks bright ; 
Smoke — light — there must be fire then, 
And I shall warm me — delight ! 
Find food — what more desire then ! 

" And this is logic — sound and good — 

Which mine own wits have brought me ; 
And if they bring me fire and food, 
How well my school has taught me." 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 23 

The Tanya, then, the youngster found, 

And bent his footsteps tow'rd it ; 
'Tis in the Puszta's farthest ground, 

And shade and silence guard it. 

The walls, the windows tottering stood, 

A tale of ruin telling — 
Is it a grave mound's solitude ? 

Or a deserted dwelling ? 

As orphan-children by the tomb, 

Of their dead mother weeping, 
There stood some scathed trees in the gloom, 

Their mournful vigils keeping. 

Nought showed that dwelling wild and wide 

Of master-mason's doings ; 
But time's hard foot on every side 

Had trampled on the ruins. 

The mortar with the rubbish lay, 

The windows all were broken, 
The shutters swung and creaked — the play 

Of rain and storm a token. 



24 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

Before the door, upon the ground, 
A lazy hound was growling, 

And friend or foe, the ugly hound 
Saluted with his howling. 

There stood an old man by the sill 
Of the remoter dwelling, 

Who, moving slow or standing still, 
Was equally repelling. 

'Twas all so damp, so dark and dull, 
So dreary, dismal, dying, 

As if a ban of curses full 
Upon the place were lying. 

And Istok, as he looked around, 
Uttered an exclamation : 
" There must the Tartars still be found 
Amidst the desolation. 

This is the seat of Tamerlane, 

Of the vile Tartar races, 
And here I see of Genghis Khan, 

The indisputable traces." 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 25 

So, spite of all the dangers, he 

Advancing as a Koman 
Bold, — and his foremost enemy 

Was an old ugly woman. 

She held a poker in her hand, 

The dying ashes moving ; 
He gently spoke as if he plann'd 

To win her heart by loving. 

"Good evening, worthy Dame! — round you 

The light of morning gathers — 
A rose of spring-time, wet with dew ; — 

We had the same forefathers." 

But soon the beldam stopped the talk, 

So rash and so provoking — 
' Begone ! the sooner off you walk 

The better — with your joking. 

" No doubt you think a welcome here 

Would be extremely pleasant — 
You'd like good wine and costly cheer, 

And honeycomb and pheasant ! " 



26 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

" Yes ! better than a cabbage-mess, 
If to such fare invited : 
You had not seen me here, I guess, 
Had I not been benighted. 

" But as 'tis night, I would implore " — 
And then he stopped — forbidden 
To pass the witch-protected door, 
And enter such an Eden, 

Yet asked— " Where is the landlord, Ma'am, 
For if the landlord knew me, 

And I could tell him who I am, 
Perhaps he'd listen to me." 

" I am the landlord," said a voice, 
As if a growling motion 
Had brought from ocean's deep a noise 
To move that troubled ocean. 

An ancient man, with snowy beard, 
Ploughed forehead, stately statute, 

And solemn, heavy gait appeared — 
But gaunt in form and feature. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 27 

He stood as stands a grave-cross stark — 

Unbending and unchanging, 
When whitening snow, or cloud- storms dark 

Are wildly, fiercely ranging. 

He looked — as looks a church-yard — dull, 

With ghouls and spirits flurried ; 
Where tombs are thick, and graves are full, 

In which all joys are buried. 

Up rose the youngster's spirit, moved 

By one so stern and surly ; 
And thus courageously reproved 

The landlord bluff and burly. 

Be calm ! be calm ! my worthy host, 

And hold thy bursting ire in ; 
I am not suffering from the frost, 

Nor from the heat perspiring. 

But truly to the skin am wet, 
And drenched my garments rather ; 

So in thy tender mercy let 

Me dry my clothes, good father ! 



28 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

" And if there be a plank where I 
Can fling a weary man down, 
There will I as contented lie 
As on the softest swan-down." 

" Well !" said the host — it was enough, 
Though growled in seeming rudeness ; 
The youngster thanked the old man rough, 
" I'm grateful for your goodness." 

He sat the chimney -hearth within, 

And soon he fell a-dozing, 
More happy than was Ermelin 

Upon his throne reposing. 

" What want I more ? — The world is mine, 

I heed not saint or sinner ; 
Except that I should like to dine, 

If I could find a dinner." 

Such were his dreams ; and in such strait, 

If seeking an adviser, 
Altho' a fool, you long might wait 

Before you found a wiser. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 29 

What was and is, and could not be — 

What might or might not happen, 
Had he but worn a night-cap he 

Had crowded his night-cap in. 

And crowded were his brains by this, 

And other such reflections ; 
The old people heard his reveries, 

His sighs, his interjections ! 

Three wagons could not carry all 

The burdens of his spirit ; 
And while they heard him cry and call, 

They only laughed to hear it. 

Their tongues were silent as a key 

Within a lock that's rusted ; 
But hunger comes, do what you may, 

And chance cannot be trusted. 

At last — at last the old man cried — 

For hunger got the upper 
Hand, as the fool had prophesied — 
- We must sit down to supper." 



30 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

He listened anxiously to them, 
And heard the grey -beard tell her, 

The wife of old .Methusalem — 
Of plundered safe and cellar. 

" We'll get a royal supper then ! " 

He to himself suggested ? 
"And who shall be the serving men? 

Even I, were I requested. 

" sweet ! most sweet ! my reverend sir, 
Will be the supper's flavour ; 
There's only one thing wanting here — 
A little salt for savour. 

" Not common salt — that is not it — ■ 
That's every where abundant, 
We want the attic salt of wit, 
With quips and jokes redundant. 

" Why even the fish, in silence bred, 
Despise our solemn silence, 
And wish that they themselves were led 
To exile many a mile hence. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 31 

" Silence no better is than death, 
And more than death I dread it ; 
lend to me your stock of breath, 
More value I than bread, it. 

" Science, and art, and history, 
Political economy, 
Are all familiarised to me, 

As earth's and heaven's astronomy. 

" I've lived in north, south, east, and west, 
In cottage and in palace, 
Will talk of what may please you best, 
Without a word of malice. 

" But speak, good man ! and I'll reply " — 

A touching melancholy 
Gave forth an answer from his eye — 

" To me 'tis all, all folly." 

"No, that is but a calumny, 

Reproachful to high heaven ; 
The world cannot all evil be, 
There's good in evil even." 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

" Good! good! where's good ?" The old man shook 

His head in grave dejection ; 
" I know not where to find, or look, 

For favor or affection. 

" I bear the weight of sixty years, 
With all their bitternesses, 
For time has turned all smiles to tears, 
And curses follow kisses. 

" The tree of life has lost its fruits, 
The winds its branches flinging, 
Wasted its trunk, and torn its roots, 
Its birds have ceased their sino-ino;. 

" The very hopes that linger last 
Are faded and departed : 
And nought is left of all the past 
But memories, broken-hearted. 

" My very youth was sour and sad, 
And winter- wrapt and weary : 
How can old age be gay or glad 
When youth was dark and dreary ? 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 33 

I loved an angel, heavenly born, 

Pure as the snow I thought her ; 
But she became a thing of scorn 

And shame — pollution's daughter. 

So my spring flower was scathed, I cursed 

' My destiny ill-fated ; 
I waited for the summer's burst, 
For autumn fruits I waited. 

They came, they passed, they fled, they brought 

Of better days no token ; 
Brought nought but woes and wailings, nought 

But wrecks and ruins broken. 

: Short gleam of day, — long darkness gloomed, 

I lost two lovely children ; 
One lives, — to foul dishonour doomed, 

misery bewildering ! 

' Ten years have past, — I stand bereft 

Of all, a vile weed, rotten, 
Down-trodden — one sole longing left, 
To die, and be forgotten. 

3 



34 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

" This sad account I fain would close, 
This bitter, bitter being ; 
Mandate of death ! come ! from his woes 
The wretched prisoner freeing. 

" what a bliss it were to sleep 
Beyond the reach of sorrow ; 
When eye-balls doomed to-day to weep 
Shall drop no tears to-morrow." 

Such was the old man's evidence, 
Which sad experience taught him ; 

Where Istok found both truth and sense, 
And suddenly bethought him : 

« Why was I wanton with his woe ? 
An old man's woes count double : 
Father ! I would not wound thee ! No ! 
Nor trifle with thy trouble. 

" Yes, father ! T have sinned, and bear 
The burthen of confession ; 
Yet you transgress, — Old Man ! despair — 
Despair is your transgression. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 35 

" But of all sins, the very worst 
Is stubborn Pessimismus ! 
And of all crimes the most accursed 
Is stupid Atheismus ! 

" Despair is but hell's fearful cry, 
Proclaiming in its madness, 
That heaven is godless vacancy, 
And earth a void of sadness. 

" And they who doubt the grace of God, 
The great, the good preceptor, 
Shall feel the smitings of His rod, 
When they renounce His sceptre. 

" For all One Father have — for all 
That Father cares, out-pouring 
The sun-beams glance, the rain drops fall 
On th' heedless as th' adoring. 

" But patience ! since for all his sons 
That Father spreads a table 
With bounties, blisses, benisons, 
And gifts incalculable. 



36 IST0K, THE FOOL. 

' ; In patience wait ! as sun and star 

Break though heaven's azure curtain ; 
So constant all His mercies are, 
But still more bright and certain. 

'•' Yes ! even in this world's midnight, He 
Some streaks of light hath given ; 
And midst our dark mortality, 
Hung up a star in heaven. 

" And from that star a ray falls down, 
As radiance fell on Eden, 
Bright, all the hills with light to crown ; 
Sweet, ocean's depths to sweeten." 

So spake the youth, the old man prest 
His hand, and when he stopt there, 

Sweet as the milk from mother's breast, 
Those gracious words had dropt there. 

The old man's heart at nature's touch 
Was melted — " I implore thee 

Tell me where thou hast learnt so much ? 
What land, — what mother bore thee ?" 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 37 

That land, that mother's honoured name, 

Flittered like ghosts before him ; 
And many thoughts of sadness came 

In gloomy vision o'er him. 

Yet spake he calmly, as in glee : 
" I heard the owlets screeching, 
Out of the gloomy ivy -tree, 
And listened to their teaching. 

" A no- where born, unowned am I, 
The cloud-land my dominion ; 
My ancestors were nobody, 
My soul a petrel's pinion. 

" I wander forth, my pilgrim's staff 
A fit companion makes me ; 
I doff or don my hat, — I laugh 
Or weep, — as fancy takes me. 

" I care for hunger not, nor cold, 
To me even pain is pleasant ; 
The dawning future makes me bold, 
Because I hate the present. 



38 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

'•'You ask my birth-place, and my school, 
My history, name, and nation, — 
Enough — Istok, Istok, the Fool : — 
That is my appellation." 

And the next morning, firm and tight 
His knapsack having fastened, 

To the old man, at morning's light, 
The grateful Istok hastened; 

And gave a kind farewell, and said — 
"If luck should come, — a prophet 

Once visited this humble shed, 
And parting, told thee of it." 

The old man grasps the youngster's hand, 
He trembles as he hails him ; 

Tears starting in his eye-balls stand, 
His power of utterance fails him. 

At last, words, broken words, and weak, 
Broke from his lips, — " God guide thee, 

I would — I would — I cannot sj)eak ; 
But let all good betide thee. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 39 

" God guide thee ! No ! that cannot be— 
The word, Farewell ! I never 
Can utter a farewell to thee, 
So stay with me for ever. 

"I'm poor, I'm old, but here, yes, here, 
You shall find more of loving, 
Of kindness, peace, than other where, — 
dream not then of moving. 

" Speak, — speak as you spoke yesterday, 
It was so wisely spoken ; 
It brought such healing that it may 
Even heal a heart that's broken. 

" And wilt thou not, dear friend, remain !" 
The young man answered, " Even, 
Even as you will ; the parting's pain 
Be spared to both by heaven. 

" If babbling such as mine can give 
An old man peace or pleasure, 
In pleasure and in peace we'll live, 
And babble without measure. 



40 ISTOK. THE FOOL. 

" But there's a rumbling noise at hand, 
I hear men's voices humming ; 
A waggon on the Puszta sand. 
And company is coming." 

" They must not enter here," cried he ; 

" Here is there room for no man." 
" What ! not my grandfather to see ? " 
Answered a sweet-voiced woman. 

The door flung ope, which stood ajar, 
In leaped a smiling maiden ; 

She was as lovely as a star, 
With light and love o'erladen. 

She clung her to the old man's breast, 
With smiles, and tears, and kisses ; 

never was a mortal blest, 
With such excess of blisses. 

" Thy grandchild, I, to thee I cling, 
welcome and protect me ; 

1 comfort ask, and comfort bring, 

And thou will not reject me. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 41 

" And I am lost, unless in thee 
I find a sire's protection ; 
My father has abandoned me, — 
I trust to thine affection. 

" For he insists that I shall wed 
(And for the gift be grateful) 
A man whose home, and heart, and head, 
Are most intensely hateful. 

" He stood, a cold stone petrified, 
I wept, — I raved, — I pleaded ; 
turn not thou, as he, aside, 
But give the shelter needed. 

"I see in thy reproachful eye, 
A menace to exile me ; 
give me not to infamy, 

To doom that would defile me ! 

" Long, long I dreamed that thou — that thou, — 
And yet I dared not try thee ; 
hear me, help me, save me now, 
Compel me not to fly thee. 



42 ISTOK, THE FOOL, 

" Do what thou wilt, thou canst not be 
So steely, stony -breasted ; 
No ! thou wilt not surrender me, 
To wed with the detested." 

What could he say ? — the poor old man — 
When hearts are flowing over, . 

No fettering power of language can 
Thought's hidden depths discover. 

But sighs and sobs and tears, — instead 
Of words — unchecked, out-breaking ; 

The tender look, the bending head, 
Were eloquently speaking. 

The present and the past were blent 

In one confused emotion, 
As mingling rivers, when intent 

On flowing towards the ocean. 

That ocean whelmed him in th' abyss 
Of storm-tossed waves confusing — 

Life, death, weal, woe, light, darkness, bliss, 
In wild bewildered musing. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 43 

After long silence — as the rocks, 

Heaven-smitten, pour their streaming,— 

" A friend ? — and do my snowy locks 
Grow dark, or am I dreaming ? 

"A dream ! — What dream ? Can this be she, 

And was it I who taught her 
To dance, sweet child ! upon my knee — 

Young man, 'tis my grand-daughter. 

Stretch out thy hand — come near to me, 

All — all shall be forgiven, 
For o'er our dark mortality, 

There shines a star in heaven. 

So come to me, and stay and trust, 

With me thou shalt abide, dear ! 
I will thy guardian be — thou must 

Be ever at my side, dear ! " 

And many a loving word he said, 

More than I can repeat now, 
In gentleness engendered, 

All sleek and soft and sweet, now ! 



44 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

But hark ! without — a thundering voice — 
A father claims his daughter ; 
" Begone ! Begone ! " the old man cries, 
" What misery hast thou brought her ? 

" Cross not my threshold — but begone ! 
Thou vainly hast pursued her, 
Or I will be the banished one, 
And God shall curse the intruder. 

" Thy child ? mention not the name ! 
Thou wert the vile invader, 
Who to disgrace, and sin, and shame, 
Wretch ! did'st conspire to lead her. 

" Yes ! thro' thy child, just heaven shall mete 
What thou to me hast meted, 
And my dark history's curse repeat, 
In thine more dark repeated. 

" Again begone ! No more intrude, 
Off — need I further press thee ? 
I would not curse thee if I could, 
And yet I cannot bless thee." 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 45 

The old man spoke — more sad than stern, 

His darkened glance alighted 
Upon his son — he saw him turn, 

And flee away affrighted. 

The old man stood — a statue grand — 

Cold — silent — without motion ; 
Standing, as broken icebergs stand 

Upon a frozen ocean. 

But when the graceless son had fled, 

The old man's eyes o'er- swelling, 
A shower of heavy tear-drops shed, 

And then he sought his dwelling. 

And there sat down, depressed and dumb, 
Unnerved — unmoved — while, coldly, 

He saw the young man towards him come, 
Who thus addressed him boldly. 

; ' I am no longer wanted here, 
For thou hast found a treasure, 
Beyond all other treasures dear, 

Whose worth no words can measure. 



46 



TSTOK. THE FOOL. 



" Give me thy blessing, I am gone ; 
My destiny is pressing ; 
Thou honored sire ! Thou smiling one ! 
Give — give me both your blessing." 

And then he moved, as if to go ; 

The old man's eye-balls glistened — 
He uttered a pathetic " No ! " 

And while the young man listened, 

He said — " I order thee to stay, 

No difficulty make now, 
And as my griefs are past away, 

My joys thou shalt partake now." 

" Well ! I remain ! — So be it then ; 
Instal me the protector, 
Proclaim me both of beast and men, 
The ruler and director. 

" You have a trusty maiden now, 
For all the household's guiding ; 
O'er all above and all below, 
Becomingly presiding. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 47 

' And I, a world-experienced man, 

Called by the doom of fate here, 
Out of these ancient bear-holes can 
A noble house create here." 

Great was the change; he gathered round 

The servants, fast and faster : 
And soon the very meanest found 

The influence of the master. 

And soap and sand and brush and broom, 

And three days' thorough labour, 
Had metamorphosed roof and room, 

So that no passing neighbour 

Had known the place, from dirt and dust, 

Clean as a soldier's jacket ; 
Keys, locks, bolts, handles free from rust, 

All brightening in the racket 

By Istok made — the fool — who can 

Make wiser mortals follow ; 
There was a spirit in the man, 

Not a mere tinkling hollow. 



48 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

He could command, and was obeyed, 

A firm, but gentle power ; 
He knew the value of the maid, 

The influence of a flower. 

He rises with the rising mom, 

And to the Puszta going, 
Paces the furrows, binds the corn, 

Or watches o'er the sowing. 

And when the maiden, busied still, 
With household care is toiling, 

She sees him o'er the window sill, 
And cheers him with her smiling. 

And here, — there, — everywhere he moved, 

With labour's riches laden ; 
His industry the old man loved, 

His heart the youthful maiden. 

And so hours fled, and so fled days, 

Such are too swiftly fleeing, 
While those who saw their happy ways, 

Felt happier in the seeing. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 49 

How was the wonder brought about ? 

It seemed a marvellous history, 
And many a guess and many a doubt 

Were mingled in the mystery. 

But day to day improvement brought, 

Some ever new invention ; 
Strange is the magic power of thought, 

When led by good intention ! 

When all was ordered — ordered well, 
He strapped his pack for starting ; 

He sought the old man. sought the belle, 
To say, "lam departing." 

But no ! The words he never spoke, 

For misery to his eye lent 
The tears that drowned his tongue, and broke 

His heart, and he was silent. 

The old man guessed — the maiden felt 

The meanings yet unuttered ; 
Upon his trembling lips they dwelt, 

Which broken accents stuttered. 



50 ISTOK, THE FOOL. 

Then all fell weeping — maid and man 
And youth — their hot cheeks glitter 

With the thick stream of tears that ran, 
So bursting and so bitter. 

And so they sobbed and wept — each breast 
With varied passions throbbing ; 

The old man left his seat of rest, 
His weeping and his sobbing — 

Rushed on the youth, and soon untied 
The straps the pack enfolding ; 
. The maiden swiftly cast aside 
The staff that he was holding. 

And sack and staff are there anon, 

Upon a peg suspended ; 
Istok, the Fool, has never gone 

From thence, as he intended. 

Was he a fool ? Perchance there's less 

Of folly than is seeming, 
When for substantial happiness 

We give up idle dreaming. 



ISTOK, THE FOOL. 51 

What flowers were on the Puszta seen, 

What music and what dances ! 
A happy wedding is, I ween, 

The best of life's romances. 

And when they left the altar, blest 

With pastoral benediction, 
Tears fell upon the old man's breast, 

Of joy, and not affliction. 

" My children ! From my inmost heart 
I bring congratulation, 
And now I may in peace depart, 
For I have seen — salvation." 

"Depart ! not till thou hast seen — 
(We know What comes of courting) 
Thy great grandchildren on the green, 
And blessed them in their sporting." 

Years pass, and children in their play, 

Bound happy parents gather ; 
The only question is, who may 

Most please that dear grandfather. 



52 ISTOK, THE FOOL, 

And now the wild winds drive the clouds, 
'Tis winter's sharpest weather, 

The cold mists wrap the earth in shrouds, 
The white snows drape the heather. 

Yet thro' the darkness of the night, 
When all around seems mourning, 

There burns in one sweet cot a light, 
That is for ever burning. 

Where by the chimney sit — a clan, 
Their evening beverage quaffing — 

A husband, wife and ancient man, 
And children round them laughing. 

The storms to them no terrors bring, 
No fears to them are coming — 

Go ! listen to the songs they sing, 
And hear the spindle humming. 



NOTES. 

Istok — Pronounced Ishtok, the Magyar name for Stephen, or 
Steeny. 

Puszta— The waste, the heath, the wide expanse of land — as 
the Pampas of South America. 

Tanya — The cottage, often the Inn or pot-house of the Pusztas. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 



"Janos, the Hero," is one of the most popular of Petofi's 
Poems. Janos is a peasant of the Plains, who, heing separated 
from his love, Iluska, passes through a series of marvellous 
adventures, returns to his native village to learn that the object 
of his affections, who had been faithful to him through much 
suffering, was numbered with the dead. From her grave, which 
he visits, he plucks a rose that is his companion through scenes 
and struggles more terrible than any of his early encounters, 
and at last penetrates into Fairyland, where — contrasting his 
own loneliness and misery with the felicity that surrounds him — 
he flings his rose into an adjacent lake, intending to follow it, 
when suddenly his Iluska rises radiant from the waters,— they 
were the waters of immortality, — and flings herself into . his 
arms. They become the King and Queen of Fairyland, where 
they still are supposed to reign. 



The poem consists of 27 parts, every one of which 
is characterized by originality, variety, and power. 
" The Hero," a Magyar shepherd, is introduced near 
one of the rude huts (Juhassbojtar) which are found 
on the wild, wide plains of Hungary. Hot and 



54: JANOS, THE HEKO. 

weary, the burning rays of the mid-day sun fall 
like streams of fire upon him — added to which — 

In his youthful heart the flames of love were blazing, 
And he watched the herd amidst the heather ' grazing ; 
Where they grazed he lay upon the broom 2 reclining, 
While the fervid sun was on his Shuba 3 shining : 
Bound him fields of flowers waved, like the waves of 

ocean ; 
Beautiful they were, — but wakened no emotion, 
For his eyes were fixed, as with a charmed persistance, 
On a crystal stream, about a stone-throw's distance ; 
Not the ripples gay that musically danced, 
But a maiden fair the shepherd's soul entranced, — 
Standing in the stream — a bright-eyed beauteous 

creature, 
Long tressed — breasts of snow — of perfect form and 

feature — 
Naked to the knees — love's very loveliest daughter — 
Bathed her rosy face in the refreshing water. 

The maiden was Iluska — his pearl casket — his soul's 
fascination. He addresses her in the most passionate 
language, implores her to leave the stream, and to 

1 Puszta. 2 Ginestra. 3 Outer garment of sheep-skin. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 55 

listen to him. She answers that she must be gone — 
she is summoned by her cruel step-mother. He flies 
towards her ; — 

Then with honied words he threw his cloak around 

her, 
And in passionate love he to his bosom bound her — 
Kissed and kissed again, a hundred times, if any ; 
He who all things knows, he only knows how many. 

The second part begins — 

ii. 

Swiftly flew the hours, as hours are ever flying ; 
On the flowing stream the eve's red tints were lying. 

The step -mother inquires why Iluska has not re- 
turned, and determines to seek her. She finds her 
—sees the youth depart — and breaks out into the 
most bitter and calumnious vituperations. The youth 
comes forward — denounces her slanders — menaces 
her with fearful visitations if she wrong the orphan 
girl — from whom he says he will exact an account 
of what may happen. He takes up his Shuba — 
thinks of the flock of sheep that he had neglected, — 



56 JANOS, THE HERO, 

and when he reaches the place, finds they are dis- 
persed; and the next part thus commences — 

in. 

When the morning sun above the earth had mounted, 

And the shepherd youth his scattered sheep had 
counted ; 

Half were wanting there — what fate has them befallen? 

Have they been by wolves — or else by robbers stolen ? 

Wolf, or thief, — why ask? Enough that half are 
wanting, — 

Sore perplexed swain, with shame and sorrow pant- 
ing; 

What to do — what say ? How useless all complaining ! 

Silent he drove home the sheep that were remaining. 

Full of trepidation he reaches the house of his master, 
whom he finds at the door, and who begins, as he 
was wont, to count over the sheep. Janos tells him 
that many are missing ; that it is no use for him to 
deny it by a lie. His master seizes him by the mous- 
tache, tells him he can tolerate none of his jokes, 
curses him, and grasping an iron-pronged fork, 
threatens to " save him from the gallows," by dis- 



JANOS, THE HERO, 57 

posing of him then and there. It ended by a " Be 
off!" Janos is sorely perplexed; feels he has 
wronged his master, is not willing to abandon the 
old man, by whom he had been brought up ; he flies 
— he hesitates — he returns — his brain utterly be- 
wildered. The fourth act opens — 

IV. 

Many thousand stars were glittering on the surface 
of the water, and Janos stood, he scarcely knew 
how, close to Iluska's garden. He was singing a 
most melancholy song ; and as the dew fell upon 
the trees and upon the grass, he asked " Are these 
the tears of the pitying stars ? " Iluska was asleep, 
but the well-known voice awakened her. She came 
to welcome him, but struck with his wild and wan 
appearance, exclaims — 

Tell me why so sad ? dear love ! ah, thou appearest, 
Pale as is the moon — and why? thou fondest, dearest! 

He answers, he may well be sad and pale, as he sees 
her for the last time. She replies, that if his looks 
alarmed her, his words alarm her more. And he 
responds — 



58 JANOS, THE HERO. 

Spring-tide of my spirit ! — thee I quit for ever, 
Never wilt thou hear my voice again — never ; 
Yet once more I bless thee — yet once more I kiss thee, 
Then, wretched doom, then evermore to miss thee. 
Scarcely could he speak for weeping and for sobbing, 
And his throbbing bosom prest her bosom throbbing, 
Bent himself to earth, to hide the tear-floods stealing 
Down his white, wet cheeks, his agony revealing ; — 

He bids his " sweet rose " remember him, the wan- 
derer, when she sees the dry leaves scattered by the 
storm. She answers — 

Go ! if go thou must, and may God's holy blessing 
Smile on every sod thy weary feet are pressing ; 
Gather every flower — and its fair leaves, while fading, 
Shall remind thee oft of thy dear absent maiden. 

So they parted like riven branches — both hearts, wintry 
wastes. Once more their tears mingled — he wiped 
them with his shirt-sleeve. 

And he went — he saw not, and he cared not whither ; 
Darkness came — what recked he, wandering hither, 
thither? 

The peasant children laughed at him as he passed — 
the oxen lowed : he noticed neither. The village 



JANOS, THE HERO. 59 

lay behind him — lie saw not the hearth fires; but 
the church-steeple seemed to look upon him mourn- 
fully. Any one near might have heard his sighs ; 
but no one was there. A flock of herons flew by, 
but they noticed nothing. He wandered thro' the 
night — no sound except the rustling of his Shuba — 
it was heavy — he flung it down ; but the heaviness 
he could not get rid of was the greater heaviness 
of his heart. 



Chased away by the sun the full moon departed ; 
the Puszta surrounded him, boundless 1 as the ocean. 
From its east the sun rose, to its west the sun de- 
scended ; but from its rising to its setting saw neither 
flower nor tree, nor shrub ; some dew-drops hung 
upon the short grass. To the left of the sun red 
vapours rose from a lake which was surrounded by 
lentils green as emeralds : — 

Midst the lentil plants there stood — the lake shore 

near on, 
Seeking for his food — a solitary heron : 
Fluttering o'er the lake, ascending and decending, 
Flocks of water-birds their wayward course were 

wending;. 



60 JANOS, THE HERO. 

Janos, surrounded by dark shadows, and filled with 
darker thoughts, again — 

Saw upon the Puszta the sun's radiance sparkling, 
While within his heart a night of nights was darkling. 

Hunger came with the coming day ; he found a scrap 
of bacon in his pocket ; looking around him he saw 
the blue heaven, the bright sun, and beneath, the 
shifting many-coloured Delibab. 1 Then came thirst ; 
he dipped his hat in the lake, and drank the water 
from its brim. He sank down, wearied, and made 
a mole-hill his pillow while he slept. He dreamt 
that Iluska was in his arms, and when about to kiss 
her was wakened by a thunder clap. There was a 
frightful storm — black and gloomy as his own 
destiny : 

All the earth was clad in darkest robes funereal, 
Whirlwinds' -voices spoke in menaces imperial ; 
Every cloud above had all its sluices riven, 
While the lakes below flung cataracts up to heaven. 

Janos seized his staff — covered his face with his 



1 The Fata Morgana (Mirage), the deceitful, many-hued picture, 
commonly seen in the hot summer in the Magyar plains, exists in 
the Asiatic and African deserts, and less frequently in the Crimea 
and in Sicily. 



JANOS, THE HEKO. 61 

hat — turned his Shuba inside out, and facing the 
storm, again bestrode the plain. The sky began 
to brighten — the winds dispersed the clouds — a rain- 
bow appeared in the east. The rain had refreshed 
him ; he sturdily pursued his way till the sun sank 
in its bed. He had then reached a thick forest, 
and heard the croak of a raven breaking the silence 
of death. 

Still he forward prest, for Janos was no craven — ■ 
Feared not dismal forest — feared not croaking raven ; 
Half in twilight, half in darkness, on he sped him, 
And the moon burst forth, and like a herald led him. 



VI. 

At last he sees a solitary light thro' the thickest part 
of the forest; he fancies it must be from a hut 
(Csarcla), which might give him shelter — it was no 
Csarda, but the gathering place of a dozen banditti. 
" Midnight and robbers, battle axes and pistols," are 
not pleasant objects to look at ; but Janos musters up 
courage, advances and accosts them boldly. The 
leader asks him how he dared intrude : unhappy man ! 
hast thou parents or wife, and hast thou bidden them 
farewell ? He answers — 



62 JANoS, THE HERO. 

" He who nothing has — he is to fear a stranger ; 
Rich men, not the poor, may shrink from threatened 

danger ; 
Life is nought to me — to hold it, or to lose it — 
Give me shelter then — or if you will, refuse it ; 

I am in your hands — to live or die — I care not ; 
Shelter me, your friend, — strike me, your foe, and 

spare not." 

The chief admires his courageous bravery — tells him 
he is fit to be invested with a bandit's privileges : — 

II He who laughs at death, and looks on life as zero, 
He was born for us, and born to be a hero." 

So he is invited to join the bandit band, who sport 
with robbery, sacrilege, and murder — drink out of 
silver cups, and decorate themselves with jewels of 
gold. He gives his hand, and avers it is the happiest 
moment of his life ; they sit down to revel over 
wine stolen from the cellars of the priests. The 
robbers drink to excess, and lie intoxicated on the 
floor. Janos preserves his senses, and determines to 
" put out the lights of those who had delivered over 
so many to darkness." He will fill his pocket with 
the spoils— seek his Huska — marry her — build a 
beautiful house : — 



JANOS, THE HERO. b6 

Live a blessed life, with, that beloved maiden, 
Happier, happier far than Adam was in Eden. 

But he hesitates ; he must not enrich himself with 
the fruits of robbery. The gold would be spotted 
with blood — it would bring an entail of misery — his 
conscience must not be seared to the sense of wrong. 
But he seizes a light — sets the hovel on fire — sees 
the red tongues of the flames reporting his deeds to 
heaven. A mantle of darkness enwraps" the blue sky, 
and the moon looks out enquiringly on the distur- 
bance : 

Janos smiled, and saw the owls with fluttered feather, 
Saw the frightened bats, which flapped their wings of 

leather, 
Heard the crashing beams, and watched the sudden 



Watched the sinking roof, piled up on heaps of ashes. 
And when the sun rose it looked upon nothing but 



rums. 

VII. 



Janos travelled through seven kingdoms, and one 
day, in the distance, bright weapons were glancing 
in the sun-shine. It was a corps of Hussars : 



G4 JANOS, THE HERO. 

Many a noble steed was neighing, foaming, prancing, 
Tossing his proud head, and haughtily advancing. 

His heart beat high, and he said a soldier's life must 
be a proud one ; and as he looked on the troop, the 
Captain exclaimed, "Who is that miserable fellow?" 
and Janos answered, "A wanderer on the earth — a 
night-walker ; but your grace may bring sunshine." 
" Join us if you will ; but we are bent on murderous 
work. The Turks have fallen on the Franks — we 
go with the Franks." " Be it so ! I am a good horse- 
man, and am ready for the fight. True I have had 
charge of asses, and kept sheep ; but I am a Magyar. 
God created us on horseback, Centaurs. He created 
us for warlike weapons, and for war." His eye 
spoke more than his tongue — he is enlisted : 

Great was his delight — in tactics well instructed, 
When into the line, with scarlet vest inducted ; 
In the sun-beam's glance he drew his polished sabre, 
Shining bright, as shone the weapon of his neighbour. 

His horse was proud of his rider, planted upon him 
as firm as a post — an earthquake would not have 
shaken him in his seat. His companions admired his 
agility and his grace : 



JANOS, THE HEKO. 65 

When the corps turned out, to seek for other 

quarters, 
All the maidens came and wept like weeping 

martyrs ; 
Many maidens they, and their attractions many, 
His Iluska's charms were not approached by any ; 
Wandering through the world, its good and evil 

sharing, 
Much he saw — but nought with hers to bear comparing. 

VIII. 

Step by step they went forward till they reached 
the Tartar land, where many perils awaited them 
from the dog-headed races, and their chief thus 
greeted the Magyars : — 

Wherefore come ye here, to meet death's direst 

dangers ? 
We eat human flesh — preferring that of strangers. 

The few Magyars were perplexed, when looking on 
the many Tartars. But there was a Moorish king, 
who had formerly travelled in Hungary, where he 
had received much hospitality, which he gratefully 
remembered, and he interceded with the Tartar chief, 
assuring him that the Magyars were a good, kind. 



60 JANOS, THE HERO. 

people, well known to him, and that he might safely 
allow them to pass through the country. " Grant 
this," said he, " out of thy princely favour, for the 
love of me:" 

" For the love of thee, is thy petition granted; " 
Nothing more they asked, for nothing more they 

wanted ; 
So they travelled safe, thanks to the Moor's affection, 
All the Tartar tribes afforded them protection. 

But spite of all they rejoiced when they had crossed 
the Tartar frontier : — 

And they reached a land, all desolate and lonely — 
All its fruits were figs, its food was bear's flesh only. 

IX. 

Having passed the Tartar vales and hills, which 
looked like a boundary wall behind them, they made 
their way to the dark shadows of the Italian rose- 
mary forests ; but they had terrible struggles 

with the Alpine cold so trying, 
Snow beneath them lay ; ice was about them lying ; 



JANOS, THE HERO. 67 

Tho' the cold was strong, the Magyar heart is stronger, 
Bears its burthens calmer — holds its patience longer : 
When their horses failed exhausted in their forces, 
On their rider's backs they carried off the horses. 



x. 



They go to Poland, to India — the frontier moun- 
tains reach to the clouds ; the heat is intolerable — 
the sun not a mile off : 

Nothing but the clouds for sustenance they found 

there, 
Clouds they were, so thick, they cut in slices round 

there ; 
Other clouds there were, which, after long exploring, 
Gave them streams to drink, their fountain-depths 

outpouring ; 
But the heat became insufferably horrid, 
Only in the night they scaled the mountain's forehead : 
Many were the plagues impeding their advancing, 
While among the stars their frisky steeds were pranc- 
ing; 
But the stars to Janos brought some dreams delightful, 
For of fairy fancies is a starry night full : 



68 JANOS, THE HERO. 

" I have heard to stars, when looking down from 

heaven, 
A celestial influence marvellously is given. 
If 'tis so, Iluska ! I for thee the brightest 
Will select : I know belov'd one ! thou delightest 
In the smiles of night, and sweet maid ! I'll fling 

thee 
Heaven's divinest star, all blessedness to bring thee." 

After much toil they descend from the mountains ; 
the heat moderates, and they reach the land of the 
Franks. 

XI. 

that land ! that land ! it is a lovely Eden ! 
Canaan's fairer self I but, oh, that land was bleeding 
From the Turkish hordes, whose terrible invasion 
Covered all the land with waste and desolation. 

Pitilessly they had robbed the churches, emptied the 
wine cellars, set fire to the cities. The king had 
taken flight, separated from his only child, a lovely 
daughter. The Magyars sought him — found him, — - 
and even the stern soldiers wept over his misery : 

" Misery sad is mine ! my riches were unbounded : 

1 am beggared now, by woe and want surrounded." 



JANOS, THE HERO. 69 

He is told not to despair — redemption is at hand : 

Ease thy heavy heart — dispel thy gloomy sorrow, 
Here thy saviours are — thou shall be saved to-morrow. 
"Who shall save my child; tell me who shall 

save her? 
He who saves my child, he shall in dowry have her." 

The prize was inviting ; it moved every heart with 
courageous longings. Janos listened; but said to 
himself — 

" I that maid will rescue ; but Iluska ! never 
Shall that rescue thee from my true heart dissever." 

XII. 

The sun rose as he is wont to rise; but seldom 
rises to see and to hear what he saw and heard on 
that eventful day. Loud blasts of trumpets — an 
army kneeling in prayer — the sharpening of sabres — 
the prancing of horses. The king appeared anxious 
to take part in the coming fight, but the Hussar chief 
respectfully requested "His Majesty" to abstain. 
" Courage of heart is not wanting to thee, but 
strength of arm ; leave us to do the work. Before 
nightfall thy foes shall be scattered and thy king- 



70 JANOS, THE HERO. 

dom be restored." The Hungarians sprang upon 
their steeds, sent a herald announcing war, and on 
his return, with tremendous shouts, and clashing of 
swords, they rushed on the enemy ; the hoofs of the 
spurred horses shook the earth's centre, whose sur- 
face re-echoed the shock. Seven horse-tails bore 
the heathen Pacha, who had a seven-bottle paunch ; 
his nose was red with wine ; his ugly cheeks looked 
like ripe calabashes. The resistance was fierce — the 
battle terrible : 

All the emerald plain with lakes of gore was ruddy, 
And the flowery fields became an ocean bloody ; 
Soon the heathen host were from the combat driven, 
Save the slaughtered, piled in mountains up to heaven. 

The fat-paunched Yizier encountered Janos, who 
lifted his heavy sword, and exclaimed — 

" Plague of Christian men; I'll tell thee what I'll 

do, sir! 
Thou'rt too big for one, I'll cut thee into two, sir ! " 

And so he did — 

Eight and left the body fell, it fell, divided : — 
And so died the Turk, who Christians had derided. 



JANOS, THE HEKO. 71 

The fragments of the Ottomans fled, and would have 
been flying to this moment had the Magyars pursued 
them — 

But it little mattered — 
Those who could, escaped, shattered and scared and 
scattered. 

The battle-field was like a scarlet poppy bed. Janos 
saw something white in the arms of a flying Turk : 
it was the Pasha's son, and he was bearing away the 
young daughter of the king of the Franks, who had 
fainted and was senseless. Janos followed him, "with 
hurried hoofs," and called out — 

"Stop ! or else I'll make in thy vile corpse a passage; 
Speed thy soul to hell, to bear thy master's message." 

But he stops his horse, kneels, implores pardon on 
account of his youth. He is pardoned; ordered to 
take the message home to the pagan lands, and 
inform the infidels of the fate of their bandit- 
brethren. Janos descends, 

The frightened maiden nearing, 
Sees her weeping eyes so blue, so beauty-wearing. 



72 JANOS, THE HEKO. 

She speaks, "I ask not who is rny deliverer; I am 
his, if he will accept this offering of my gratitude." 
For a moment he felt as if his blood had turned to 
water. A terrible struggle agitated his soul; but 
Iluska was there, and he answered courteously — ■ 

" Rather, 
Rose of sweetness ! I'll conduct thee to thy father, 
There we'll talk ; " — but mount, and on the horse 

that bore him, 
Deftly did she spring, and smiling sat before him. 

XIII. 

Janos lingered with the princess for some time in the 
shadow of the linden-trees, with sad eyes, contem- 
plating the battle-field : 

'Twas a mass of blood — courageous ones and cravens ; 
Hovering o'er them all were groups of hungry ravens : 
Sad it was to see the limbs, the garments shattered — 
Arms and hair and hides, with grime and gore be- 
spattered ; 
Near it was a lake, it had been clear as crystal, 
There the Magyar troop had washed their hands and 

wrists all, 
And its colour now, from such unholy uses, 
Was as red as wine from the grape's purple juices. 



JANOS. THE HERO. 



73 



They leave the melancholy sight, and hasten to the 
place where 

The king had found a shelter : 
what crowds were there, assembled helter-skelter : 
Janos led the maid — what shouts ! what songs ! what 

screaming — 
She looked like a rainbow from the heaven-clouds 

beaming. 

They reach the king — he sinks speechless on the 
bosom of his child; but is revived by the burning 
kisses she impresses on his lips. Kejoicings and 
festivities are proclaimed. The fat calf, the flowing 
wine; the tables are spread — the Magyars around — 
the king in the midst. No wonder that brave and 
hungry men enjoyed the repast. The king asks for 
silence, he has something of importance to say : 

" Hero of the heroes I dearest of the dearest ! 

Let me know the name, the honoured name thou 

bearest : " 
" KuTcoricza Jancsi 1 is my name unsightly, 
Ne'er dishonoured yet by any deed unknightly." 

1 The Hungarian for Jack, the Maize-boy. It is not uncommon 
for the peasants to attach nicknames to their companions. The 
meaning here is that the boy was found in a field where Indian corn 



74 JANoS, THE HERO. 

The king interrupted him, exclaiming — 

" Henceforth shall he bear a name more proud and 

knightly, 
John, the hero ! he, and he will bear it rightly : 
John, the hero ! list ! " the startled youth addressing ; 
" He who saved a child should have a father's blessing, 
And the child once saved by thy courageous bearing, 
Offers thee a crown to honor with thy wearing ; 
She shall be thy bride, and when thou dost accept her, 
For her dowry she shall bring a throne and sceptre ; 
Kingly toils and cares have bent my old age double, 
Let thy youth and hers relieve me of my trouble ; 
Well thy noble brow a monarch's crown is fitting. 
Bright will shine its gems upon thy forehead sitting ; 
I shall cease to drink of sorrow's bitter chalice, 
Grant me but a room within thy honoured palace." 

The Magyars listened with delight and wonder to the 
king's speech. Janos, addressing the monarch, reve* 
rently refused the tempting offer. He was unworthy 
of so great a gift ; but he implored permission to tell 
his own history, which might explain the reasons for 
his refusal. The king promises him a patient hear- 
ing, but doubts whether he will find a becoming 
justification. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 



XIV. 



Janos began by relating how the name of Kukoricza 
was given him. He was found when a babe, hidden 
under a heap of maize (Kukuruz). A good woman, a 
farmer's wife, who went into the field in search of 
straw, saw a something moving amidst the corn : 

Heard an infant cry, and pitying its crying, 
Took me from the corn-heap, where I had been lying, 
Where a heartless mother cruelly had dropt me, 
Brought me to her home, and promised to adopt me ; 
She was childless — but she had a husband brutal — 
When she urged her suit, he negatived her suit-all ; 
On my head he hurl'd a heavy imprecation, 
Spoke of her with scorn and rage and indignation. 

But at last he is soothed by her gentle remonstrances. 
"How could I leave the babe to perish ; would not God 
abandon me, for my hard-heartedness, in the hour of 
death had I abandoned the baby ; 

" He will help your work, will please you with his 

prattle ; 
You are growing old, have horses, sheep, and cattle ; 
He was sent by heaven, to comfort, to assist you, 
As his patron now, dear man ! I would enlist you." 



76 JANOS, THE HERO. 

But tho' he tolerated me, he did not love me. He 
went sullenly to his work, and often looked on me 
with reproachful and malignant eye ; 

Made me labour hard, and punished me severely, 
Frown' d upon me oft, and smiled upon me rarely ; 
Yet one joy I had — a joy of joys, the greatest, 
Of all maidens sweet, I loved the very sweetest : 
'Twas an orphan girl — 

Her mother was dead ; her father mnrried a second 
wife, and dying himself left the girl to the care 
of a cruel step-mother. She was the object of all my 
thoughts. She was the rose of my thorny life. how 
I loved her ! She and I were called the village orphans. 
To see her, to talk to her, was the bliss of my boyhood. 
In her looks I revelled as in the sunshine ; and to 
play with her on Sabbath days was my delight and 
my devotion. My very being was transformed in 
her presence : 

And when blu shingly, a sweet, sweet kiss she granted, 
' Twas a wildering bliss, and nothing more I wanted. 

But the step-mother was the torment of her life. 
May God never forgive the evil -hearted woman ! I 
checked some of her malevolence : still my beloved 
one had but a wretched existence : 



JANOS, THE HERO. 77 

I had sorrows too, the kind, the loving mother, 
Who had found me, died — I never found another ; 
Though my heart is hard, how oft my hot tears steep- 
ing 
On her tomb the grass, have wearied me with weep- 
ing ; 
Could those tears have told the depth of my emotion, 
they would have filled the immeasurable ocean ! 

The beautiful Iluska also wept — but not despond- 
ingly. She thought time would bring about our 
union : 

Often did she say : " Bear up with hopeful spirit ! " 
Disappointment comes, but bravely learn to bear it ; 
Disappointment's reign will speedily be ended, 
When sweet patience waits, by smiling hope attended." 

And so we waited patiently and hopefully — 

And her soothing words dispersed my melancholy — 
Every word of hers seemed truth-inspired and holy. 

But days and days passed, and the fountain of hope 
failed to freshen the languishings of love. Then it 
was that I neglected the flock of sheep that was con- 
fided to my keeping, and I was driven forth by the 
master whose business I had too little cared for : 



78 JANOS, THE HERO. 

From Iluska torn so mournfully asunder, 

Crushed the heavy weight of woes and wailings under ; 

Wandering through the world, o'er good and evil 

pondering, 
Where shall I find rest from all this weary wandering? 
For I asked no pledge — when from Iluska parted — 
Asked no vow from her, from her the faithful-hearted ; 
What were words to those, whose echoing thoughts 

responded, 
When the deepest depths of silent souls were sounded. 
Maid of royal race ! if faithlessness be hateful, 
Blame me not I pray, and deem me not ungrateful ; 
For Iluska I have stamped my oath in heaven, 
" Could I treacherous be, and hope to be forgiven ?" 

xv. 

There was a general outbreak of approval when Janos 
had ended his narrative. Tears of disappointment 
and sorrow filled the eyes of the princess. But the 
king said he would not enforce the marriage, but 
would offer a gift, not to be refused ; so he beckoned 
to one of the attendants, who delivered to Janos a 
large sack full of gold — 

Being 
Such a heap as he had never dreamt of seeing. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 7\) 

And he said, " This is for the saviour of my child" — 

Take it, then, my son — to thine Iluska take it, 
For thy faithful love, a worthy offering make it ; 
I would keep thee here, but know that thou art sighing 
For that mourning one, who for thy love is dying. 
Go ! — where'er thou art, may every blessing find thee ; 
Leave us here, as guests, thy Magyar troop behind thee." 

And so it was, and Janos took his departure for 
Iluska's home ; and the princess greeted him with a 
tender farewell, while he, with overflowing heart, 
entered a galley, provided with every comfort, to 
which the king and the hussars escorted him; and 
till the galley was lost in the distant mists he saw 
their friendly gestures, and heard their voices bid- 
ding him God- speed! 

XVI. 

Prosperous winds filled the sails of the galley, and 
drove them swiftly over the water ; but swifter was 
the succession of thoughts that passed through his 
mind. "How little does my soul's angel dream of 
the bliss that awaits her ; not only do I return to her, 
but return to her loaded with treasures : 



80 



JANOS, THE HERO. 



Richer none than I among Hungarian agnates, 
Prouder none than I of all the Magyar magnates." 

For a moment he thinks of the delight of being re- 
venged on those who had wronged him ; but why ? 
Their unkindness had been the cause of his good 
fortune — better forgive them ! — better be grateful to 
them. Such reflections, and many more, occurred 
to him. They were still very far from the beautiful 
Magyar-orszag— the Hungarian land : 

Janos walked the deck — it was the fall of even, 
Gathering darkness spread its mantle over heaven ; 
Janos heard a voice — 'twas from the galley's master — 
" We are sailing fast, but storms are coming faster." 
Janos turned away — he turned as if not hearing, 
When he saw above a flight of storks careering ; 
They were hastening south, for ere the wintry season 
Storks will seek a home, with most instinctive reason. 

They were flying away from the storm — it was a 
gloomy prognostic. He, too, thought of Iluska — of 
home. Should he, like the storks, ever find a home ? 

XVII. 

The sky fulfilled its own prophecy — the sea that was 
yesterday smooth and calm was violently agitated. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 81 

The waves responded to the howling of the winds. 
Terror seized the crew, who betook themselves to 
boats ; discipline was lost, and with it all confidence 
and courage : 

Clouds with darker clouds seemed like black troops 

embattled, 
To the rattling thunders louder thunders rattled ; 
To the lightning flash yet fiercer lightnings flashing, 
'Gainst the helpless ship o'erpowering waves were 

dashing : 
There she lay, a wreck, and round the wreck was 

floating 

Many a surge-driven corpse, for useless was the boat- 
ing- 
How was Janos saved ? for in that tempest no man 

Help or safety found, from either friend or foeman. 

Strange, the arm of heaven was stretched out to help 
the hero : 

For a mighty wave up to the heavens had flung him, 
And he seized a cloud, and on its mantle hung him ; 
Firmly did he hold, both of his hands applying, 
So was Janos saved, and lived instead of dying. 

6 



82 JANOS, THE HERO. 

Clouds rolled past the sea and travelled towards the 

high land, 
Janos loos'd his hold, and landed on the dry land. 
Besting on the sand, he pour'd his adoration 
To that God, whose strength had wrought his strange 

salvation : 
Seeking not his gold, he cared not for his crosses, 
Having saved his life, he thought not of his losses. 
Janos wandered round — he scarcely had a rag on — 
Till he pounced upon the nest of a fierce dragon ; 
Feeding his young brood, the dragon was so busy, 
That a thought occurred — it almost made him 

dizzy — 
" Shall I slay the brood?" He crept into the nest, he 
On the dragon sprung, and as he did his best, he 
Spurred the monstrous beast, and said, " You shall 

not tarry, 
But o'er hills and plains your master safely carry." 
How the charm was wrought I know not : he obeyed 

him, 
And o'er many a region rapidly conveyed him ; 
Hero, all command, and dragon all obedience, 
Bowed his head and neck in reverent allegiance : 
Janos looked beneath on many a king's dominions, 
Till he bade the dragon moderate his pinions ; 



JANOS, THE HERO. 83 

" For I see," he said, " mine own beloved people, 
Perch thee, dragon, now ! upon the village steeple," 
what joy was his to feel, as they descended, 
All his hopes renewed, and all his sorrows ended ; 
He dismissed his steed, and calmly said, " Return ye 
Many and many thanks, for this successful journey." 

But what shall he say to Iluska ? "I bring no gold, 
no treasures, no wonders from foreign lands ; but I 
do bring thee a pure heart ; and wilt thou receive 
that heart as worthy of thee ? " 

Then, and thinking thus, he reached the well-known 

village — 
Met the herds and hinds proceeding to the tillage — 
Heard the rustic songs from the far-east and far- west, 
'Twas the vintage time, it was the time of harvest. 
None observed him — none — nor passenger nor peasant, 
Not a soul there dreamt of such a hero present ; 
But he wandered forward to the village centre, 
Saw Iluska's cot, and dared he, dared he enter ? 
When his doubting hand was on the latch it trembled : 
! the hero there, a hero ill resembled : 
Entering at last, he met unwonted noises — 
Saw that all was changed — heard nought but strangers' 

voices. 



84 JANOS, THE HEEO. 

"I am mistaken — mistaken," he said, and was lifting 
the latch, when a pretty and graceful girl asked very 
courteously, " Whom is your honour seeking ? " 
" Iluska ! " " Heart of mine ! so changed— so sun- 
burnt — I hardly knew you'; " and she laughed with joy ; 

"Come, come in ; with thee let heaven's best blessings 

come now — 
I have much to tell — so welcome, welcome home now." 

She leads him into the house — places him in a chair, 
and asks — 

'•' What ! not know me, John ? Thine early recollections, 
Are they swept away, and all thine old affections 
Dost forget the child, oft by Iluska seated ? " 
''Where? where's Iluska? Tell me," he repeated. 
Asked again — again — his anxious heart was throb- 
bing— 
Saw the maiden weep, he heard the maiden sobbing. 
"Must I answer? why? Alas 1 but thou hast bidden; 
Poor, poor Janos ! She in the dark grave is hidden." 
Had he not been seated, he had fallen lifeless — 
Dreadful, dreadful doom — the widowed and the wife- 
less ! 
Would his heart not burst, with all the woes within it? 
Then he hung his head — was silent for a minute, — 



JANOS, THE HERO. 85 

Spoke, as if from some bewildered dream emerging, 
" Tell me, tell me this — and did she die a virgin ? 
Did she wed ? Perhaps, my child, thou didst deceive 

me." 
" No ! alas ! no ! And wilt thou not believe me ? " 
Then he saw her face, and said in accents broken, 
"Too true, too true, poor girl! the sad words thou 

hast spoken." 

xviii. 

He threw himself on the table ; his tears, his sighs, 
his groans, made him for a long time speechless ; at 
last his grief found words : 

" Why was I not slaughtered in that fearful slaughter? 
Why not overwhelm'd in that o'erwhelming water ? 
Why have I been spared from miseries dark and 

many ? 
Why preserved for this, most terrible of any ? " 

As the violence of his grief became somewhat soothed, 
he desired that all particulars of Iluska's fate should be 
given to him : 

" her fate was sad — her step -mother, so cruel, 
Fed the fire of grief with fuel upon fuel ; 



86 JANoS, THE HERO. 

But to misery brought decrepit, aged, hoary, 

On a beggar's crutch she told her doleful story : 

Dear Iluska oft, her secret love confessing, 

Asked from heaven for thee, the best of heavenly 

blessing ; 
Prayed that, as on earth from thee she had been riven, 
She might claim thy love, and live with thee in heaven. 
Thus she said farewell ! to happier regions flying. 
Near us is the grave where she is calmly lying ; 
Hadst thou seen the crowds that to her funeral moved, 
Then thou wouldst have felt how much she was be- 
loved ! " 
So the maiden Janos to the green grave leading, 
Left him to his grief — his wounded heart was bleeding : 
Loudly called he on Iluska ; wildly threw him 
On her grave, as if she heard and saw and knew him. 
Then recalled the scenes, the tender recollection — 
Youth's most early dreams, and gushings of affec- 
tion ; 
Smiles from cheeks now cold, and light from eyes 

now faded 
Life and love from her, now in death's darkness 
shaded. 

There he remained till the last red ray of the sun had 
disappeared, and till the pale moon shone mournfully 



JANOS, THE HETtO. 87 

through the mists. The melancholy moon sympa- 
thised with his melancholy thoughts, and under her 
influence he walked away from the grave — 

Only to return there : where his love reposes 
Friendly hands had planted tributary roses ; 
One was blooming still, and from its stem he tore it, 
And his soul broke forth in mournful musings o'er it : 
"From her dust up -sprung, thou feeble, fragrant flower, 
Ever be with me, my dear delight, my dower, 
I till death will hold thee, thee surrender never, 
And when death shall come, sleep on my breast for 
ever ! " 



XIX. 



Two companions never, never Janos quitted — 

One was the deep grief, with all his feelings knitted ; 

And his sword the other, in the scabbard rusted 

With the blood of Turks, of conquered Turks en- 
crusted, — 

Ready, tho' in rust, while Janos wandered over 

Many a dreary desert, solitary rover ! 

Waxing, waning moons, as silver pale, shone o'er 
him, 

And another spring its offerings spread before him. 



88 JANOS, THE HERO. 

Moons and springs they brought not peace, but per- 
turbation, 

All was darkness still — darkness and desolation. 

" would death but come ! but death had other 
doings — 

Nothing for it left, midst wastes and wrecks and 
ruins : 

Here its work is done, so otherwhere I'll wend me — 

Come with me my woe, my wretchedness attend me ! 

Can I be unwelcome, when with my afflictions 

I shall help to fill the cup of maledictions." 

But sharp sorrow wears itself out; or it goes, and 
comes and goes ; and when its bitterness is moderated, 
unrest and vacancy take possession of the mind. The 
fount of tears is not inexhaustible — the eye may be 
saddened, but will not be constantly wet : 

So with heart less sore than when its grief was sorest, 
Janos wandered thro' a melancholy forest ; 
There in the deep mud he saw a peasant's waggon, 
Which nor horse nor helper thro' the slough could 

drag on : 
' Twas a potter's waggon, sunk beneath the middle 
Of th' arrested wheels — to move it was a riddle ; 



JANOS, THE HERO. 89 

Much the potter whipped, but whipped in vain, the 

horses, 
Then he crossed his arms — exhausted his resources. 
^ Good day ! honest man !" said Janos to the potter ; 
If his rage was hot, the greeting made him hotter. 
" Good day! honest man! " he said, the words repeat- 
ing; 
" Bad day! stupid fool ! the devil take your greeting," 
" That is scarcely courteous ! " said the hero smiling ; 
"Friendly words to meet, with rancour and reviling!" 
" Don't you see the waggon in the quagmire sinking ; 
Can you think that I of courteous words am think- 
ing ? 
" Those alone we aid, who're willing to be aided — ■ 
Only tell me now, where leads that pathway shaded." 
And he pointed out an opening, where the paces, 
Few and far between, had left some feeble traces. 
"Ah! you ask me there a secret well worth knowing, 
If my words prevent your up that pathway going ; 
For that pathway leads to strong-holds of the giants — • 
Better not go there, for they are ugly clients." 
'-You may trust me man!" and waxing bold and 

bolder ; 
'Gainst the mud-stuck waggon pressed his vigorous 
shoulder : 



90 JANOS, THE HERO. 

On the firm, fast road the rescued prize he grounded, 
While the potter stared, all silent, but astounded. 
Opening wide his eyes, no wonderful behaviour, 
When such feat he saw, he bowed before his saviour ; 
Muttered out his thanks, while Janos, little caring 
Whether thanked or not, was wholly out of hearing. 

And Janos boldly pressed forward, being very anxious 
to make himself acquainted with the giant land, and 
he reached the border-stream ; it was called a brook, 
but it was as wide as a river : 

By the river stood a sentinel gigantic, 

Never saw romance a monster more romantic ; 

Janos stretched his neck, he stretched with all his 

power, 
Looking on the man as on a lofty tower : 
And the sentinel asked in growling voice of thunder, 
" Do I hear a step? And who comes here I wonder ? 
Who's that little creature creeping thro' the rushes ? 
Better he take care of crossings and of crushes." 
Janos drew his sword, and o'er his head he held it, 
Giant stamped his foot, and Janos deftly fell'd it : 
How he shrieked aloud — " Invasion ! Treachery ! 

Slaughter ! " 
Bleeding, helpless, lame, he fell into the water. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 91 

" Well," said Janos, " now I think I may make pro- 
gress, 
I've dispatched the ogre, let me see the ogress : " 
On the corpse he trod, it served him for a bridge there, 
Happy augury was such a privilege there. 
But he was not dead, the death was only seeming, 
Up the giant rose, as waking from a dreaming ; 
Janos raised his sword, and of his life bereft him, 
Saw him breathe his last, and on the ground he left him. 

There was no longer a sentinel to guard the frontier 
— no longer a watchman to denounce the intruder. A 
stream of blood from his body reddened the river, 
while Janos thro' the frontier forest advanced into the 
interior. 

xx. 

Deep and deeper Janos, in the forest mazes, 
Entering sees more marvels, as he wandering gazes ; 
Where the giants rule, and keep their subjects under, 
All appears like witchery, miracle and wonder : 
There were trees so tall, that any mortal eyesight 
Could not reach the boundary of that clouded high 

sight ; 
They bore leaves so large that, without seams or 

stitches, 
One would make a cloak, or line a pair of breeches ; 



92 JAN OS, THE HERO. 

Gnats there were so big, so very noisy growing, 
That they seemed like herds of ugly oxen lowing. 
Jan 6s hewed his way, it was a heavy labour, 
By the vigorous use of his beloved sabre. 
And a crow — a crow was than a vulture bigger : 
One upon a tree, was such a monstrous figure, 
Janos looked and said, "A cloud must there be sit- 
ting ! " 
Till he heard " Caw ! Caw ! " and saw the crow was 
flitting. 

One monstrous object after another met his view, 
till he perceived in the distance a black walled city, 
in which was the fortified palace of the giants : 

Janos thither walked, the mighty mass beholding, 
Saw gigantic gates, the gates were double-folding ; 
If you deem that giants build as common men, sir ! 
Open your blind eyes, and look, and look again, sir ! 
Janos looked again, upon the walls infernal, 
" As I've seen the shell, I vow I'll see the kernel." 
So he onward prest, courageously he ventured, 
Forced the palace gates, into the palace entered ; 
Strange the sight he saw, his wonder was unbounded, 
There the giant king was by his sons surrounded ; 



JANOS, THE HEEO. 93 

They were all at meal, it was the dinner meeting, 
Eating what ? By Jove ! of sliced-rocks they were 

eating I - 
' Sit, sit down, young man I no ceremony make here, 
Of a slice of rock we beg yon to partake here." 
Janos said not Yes ! and it is not surprising ; 
He was not inclined for such strange gourmandising ; 
" If you are our guest, 'tis surely reasonable 
That you should partake of what you find at table. 
Won't you eat with us? why then you must be eaten ! 
And your blood will serve our stone - repast to 

sweeten." 
Janos thought and felt that this was serious joking — 
Such an " Eat with us ! " — not appetite provoking ; 
And he then replied, with exquisite good breeding, 
" Sir ! I'm quite unused to such delicious feeding ! 
But if it must be, then gracious sir ! so be it ! 
I'll partake your meal — and grateful— only free it 
From one strange dislike that I've acquired in travel, 
Let your rocks, kind sir ! be pounded into gravel." 
" Pound five pounds of stone," the giant then com- 
manded, 
And five pounds of stone he to the pounder handed : 
On his palm he made a reasonable figure — 
" Pound them of this size, not smaller and not bigger." 



94: JANOS, THE HEKO. 

One the king took up, and shouted out, delighted, 
" This is rather hard, I doubt if you can bite it." 
Janos grasped it fast, and held it as if weighing ; 
Not a word he said, nor thought a word of saying : 
Suddenly his hand, all powerful and pliant, 
Hmi'd the stone — it cracked the forehead of the 
giant. 

" Ha ! " laughed Janos, " Ha ! This is a just atoning, 
He who lives on stones, he can't complain of stoning." 
All the giants looked bewildered and affrighted — 
All their plans perplexed, and all their thoughts be- 
nighted ; 
One said this, one that, — there was a dreadful quarrel, 
And they dropped big tears, one tear would fill a 

barrel. 
Then a giant old, repairing the disaster, 
Said, " We hail thee king ! We hail thee king and 

master ! 
Surely thou hast been by heaven itself appointed — 
We'll obey thy rule, and serve the Lord's anointed." 
Then loud cries arose, "Live, live good king, for 

ever ! 
forgive the past, we will desert thee never ! 
Never ! never ! never ! Listen while we swear it ; " 
And the walls all shook in ecstasy to hear it. 



JANOS, THE HEKO. 95 

" Thank you, thank you all ! " he said, "I know how 

hateful 
Is ingratitude — I'm really not ungrateful : 
I have other cares, yet to your wish obedient, 
As I cannot rule, I will appoint a regent." 

But before parting he would impose one condition — 
that if they were visited by any perplexities, there 
should be a public meeting, and they would apply to 
him for assistance, which he would be prompt in 
giving. And they, in return, said, "If ever you want 
help, we will all fly to you at your call," and they 
presented to him a fife, which he was to sound when- 
ever he desired their presence. He accepted the fife, 
and never looked at but it brought back the re- 
membrance of this triumphant portion of his history ; 
so with mutual good wishes, and affectionate saluta- 
tions, Janos left the giant-land. 

XXI. 

Nowhere are we told where Janos roved or rested ; 
But we know with grief and cares and woes molested, 
Thro' the world he roamed ; in solitude we found him, 
Darkness gathering o'er him, 'neath him and around 
him. 



96 JANOS, THE HERO. 

"Is it night?" he asked; "Or am I blind — no moon- 
light — 
Starlight is not here — nor glimmering of the sunlight ; 
Sure beyond the boundaries of the earth I've ventured.'' 
Yes ! he had the realms of outer darkness entered. 
Neither star nor moon nor sun was ever known there, 
Blasts and clouds and storms and terrors reijmed 

alone there ; 
Dreadful screams he heard, and most unnatural noises, 
All discordant sounds, and melancholy voices : 
Eiding on their brooms, the witches flitted o'er him, 
Imps the darkness shook, and flapped the wind before 

him: 
All was shrouded in a black and braky curtain — 
" 'Tis the land," he said, "of Erebus, I'm certain ! " 
Soon he heard a trumpet making proclamation — 
" Come, ye witches all ! come all to convocation ! " 
' Twas the session time, there was a great debate there, 
They were settling all the business of the state there. 
In a cavern deep and dark they were assembled, 
Neath a cauldron foul a flickering fire-flame trembled. 
Janos slily entered — he was strangely curious, 
" Witches talk will be exciting, fast and furious ! " 
Janos held his breath, with a persistent tether — 
Saw the witches gathered in a heap together ; 



JANOS, THE HEKO. 97 

Bound the cauldron standing, where the ugly witches 
Threw the filthy skins of mangy cats and bitches ; 
Heads of rats and tails of snakes, and muddy mallows, 
Gathered at the foot of thieves' and murderers' gallows, 
Bones of men, and skins of toads and evvets stinking : 
Janos was perplexed, was much perplexed in thinking 
What the mess could mean, for what was it intended ? 
Could he mend the matter ? Was it to be mended ? 
Thought upon his fife, and asked his conscience whether 
He should wake its sound, and call his friends together ? 
So he stretched his hand, to draw it from his pocket, 
Something stopped him there, as suddenly to block it; 
' Twas a heap of brooms, which the infernal witches 
Flung upon the ground, all bound with impish stitches. 
Yet he reached his fife, and whistled — soon the giants 
Came in crowds, all armed, confirming their alliance ; 
Cordially he welcomed, cordially he thanked them, 
And in war's array with strategy he ranked them : 
Terrible the fright, the wildered witches scattered, 
Were by their own brooms entangled, captured, 

fettered ; 
Had no wings to fly, if they had dreamt of flying, 
So they fell to earth, all desolate and dying ; 
And the giants seized the besoms of the witches, 
Swept them into holes, and cavities and ditches ; 

7 



98 JANOS, THE HERO. 

On their festering bones shall ruin and decay light : 
Then the realms of darkness saw the dawn of day- 
light. 
Yet one witch there was, the ugliest of the ugly, 
For a moment she had hid herself so snugly ; 
But at last found out, she was, she was no other 
Than Iluska's wicked, insolent step -mother. 
"Ah ! " did Janos shout, " And I at last have caught 

thee, 
To this wretched doom thy wickedness has brought 

thee ! " 
Off she scampered then, but by her terrors hampered, 
' Twas not very far the evil woman scampered, 
For a giant seized her, and to stop compelled her, 
Seized her by the throat, and violently held her. 
Janos spoke — " Thou wretch ! I turn thee to a raven, 
But before thou reachest thine infernal haven, 
Hie thee to our village, tell them all the story 
Of thy sin and shame, and Kukoriczi's glory." 

Gaily rose the sun upon those realms benighted, 
Clouds and darkness fled, and then the heroes lighted 
A grand bonfire there, from mid-day's brightest flashes, 
Where they burnt the witches' besoms all to ashes. 
Then the giant-friends with courtesy dismissing, 
There was much saluting, blessing and hand kissing ; 



JAN OS, THE HERO. 99 

Janos he felt proud of subjects so obedient, 
And he sent a friendly message to the regent. 

XXII. 

Driven forth again to wander in his sadness, 
From Iluska's rose he caught a gleam of gladness ; 
Yet that rose so dear brought recollections gloomy ; 
It recalled the hour, when from Iluska's tomb he 
That sweet flower had plucked, and when his eye was 

fixed 
On its leaves, as oft — how many thoughts were mixed 
In bewilderings strange. 

One day it happened, while he lingered long, looking 
at the setting sun, that the darkness came on and 
reminded him it was time to rest ; he walked till 
the moon arose — walked till it had disappeared ; but 
at last, absolutely overwhelmed with weariness, 
he sank down and fell asleep: 

Little recked he then, exhausted, and so very 
Worn — his resting place was an old cemetery ; 
Kuined were the tombs — coarse grass the grave heaps 

covered — 
O'er the accursed spot destroying angels hovered. 



100 JANOS, THE HEKO. 

Graves gave up their dead, and spectres left their 

cerements, 
Pale, pale ghosts came forth, they came in snowy 

garments, — 
Formed a ring, they sang, they danced, — the earth 

beneath them 
Shook ; they kissed ; they held up cypress wreaths 

to wreathe them. 
Janos slept so sound, in slumber's arms entranced, 
Heard not that they sang, and saw not that they 

danced. 
Soon a wandering ghost the sleeping man had noted : 
"What! intruders here ! " she cried, and swiftly floated 
To her sister ghosts, and told them of the intrusion, 
In the ghostly choir there was a sad confusion ; 
Bound the sleeper gathered, gathered without number, 
When one ghost screamed out, "Awake him from 

his slumber." 
Then a loud cock-crow! and ghosts and spirits flying; 
Janos lay asleep, where Janos had been lying : 
But the cock's loud crow aroused him, he awakened, 
Then he hurried forth, nor once his foot-pace slackened ; 
Frost wind swept the grass, the storm winds roughed 

the ocean, 
Janos thought it best to put his limbs in motion. 



JANOS, THE HERO. 101 



XXIII. 



Janos to a mountain's highest summit mounted, 

One by one the dawn's developed charms he counted, 

Till their numbers passed the growing powers of 

numbers, 
Wondering there he stood, as one in dreams who 

slumbers : 
Sweet it was to see the star of morning paling, 
Lamp on lamp extinguished with the sun's prevailing ; 
And when he appeared, so grandly, proudly towering, 
Riding high and higher, all heaven's host over- 
powering ; 
As he rose with slow, and scarcely noticed motion, 
Showers of brightness bathed plain, hill and vale and 

ocean — 
Showers whose golden drops scattered on fields and 

flowers, 
Hung like jewelled offerings falling from the showers. 
Not a wave was seen on Ocean's face so even, 
While it mirrored back the canopy of heaven ; 
And the singing rills and streams and cataracts 

dancing, 
Flung around them gems, like pearls and diamonds 

glancing. 



102 JANOS, THE HERO. 

By the lake there stood a man of humble order, 
An old fisherman, who drew towards the border 
Nets that he had laid — his beard was long and hoary — 
Garb and looks all told a melancholy story. 
Janos kindly asked him, "Would you be so good, 

man, 
O'er the lake to row me, for I wish you would, man? 
Money I have none ; no, not a single penny, 
Having none to give, I will not offer any." 
" Money I desire not, and as I desire not, 
For my friendly service money I require not. 
"Wishes I have few, but every honest wishing 
Heaven has well fulfilled out of my daily fishing." 

The old fisherman is desirous to know what misfor- 
tune brought Janos to the spot. Does he know that 
it is the Operenzer Lake he seeks to cross — a lake 
without beginning and without end. The fisherman 
declines to help him across. 

" Operenzer Lake ?" and Janos was delighted 
When he heard the name — "Now all will soon be 

righted ; " 
Sought his fife within his pocket, and he found it, 
Put it to his lips, and shrillingly it soimded ; 



JANOS, THE HERO. 103 

Hardly was it heard, when lo ! a giant's pacing 
Echoed from the stones, — he came and swiftly placing 
On his breast his hand, he bowed — " Hope no mis- 
take, sir ! " 
"No! I wanted you to bear me o'er the lake, sir ! " 
" Bear yon o'er the lake ? 'Tis well, sir ! I am ready ! 
Jump upon my shoulders, and be still and steady ; 
Hold me by the hair, at nothing be affrighted : " 
Very long it was before the land they sighted. 

XXIV. 

'Twas no wonder, though the seven-leagued booted 
giant 

Had his lungs of steel, — his limbs and legs were pliant, 
Every step seven leagues, and yet three weeks had 

ended 
Ere they neared the shore to which the giant wended ; 
In the distant blue they saw a bird that fluttered — 
"Land! a vulture ! land!" the words that Janos 

uttered — 
" There's the shore ; I'm sure I see the clearing high- 
land." 
* No," the giant said, " You only see an island." 
"What's the island's name," asked Janos, somewhat 

weary. 
" 'Tis the happy kingdom, kingdom of the fairy ; 



104 JAN OS, THE HERO. 

There you reach the world's end; can no farther enter; 
We had better stop and risk no more adventure." 
" Dearest of iny subjects ! Bear me on I pray thee ; 
Say not, Stop ! good friend ! for I cannot obey thee." 
" Well then, be it so ! but know that every stranger 
Visiting that land will find it full of danger; 
And I give you warning, ere we part asunder, 
Every house you enter shows some dreadful wonder !" 
" What reck I of wonders ? Place me midst the direst." 
"If it must be so ; I'll do as thou desirest ! " 
So it was ; the giant had been tutored duly 
To obey his lord, and he obeyed him truly ; 
Asked to be dismissed, and after long farewelling, 
Crossed the lake alone, returning to his dwelling. 



XXV. 



At the nearest gate — half waking and half sleeping — 
Three tremendous bears their wonted watch were 

keeping ; 
Janos drew his sword, and mercilessly slew them, 
Forced the yielding doors, and quietly passed thro' 

them. 
" This is one day's work, enough for one day's bother, 
And a little rest will help me for another ; 



JANOS, THE HEK0. 105 

I have forced the first, and now must force the second," 
Thus our Hercules his seven-fold labours reckoned. 
On a bank he threw him, and refreshed in vigour, 
Wakened with the sun, a renovated figure ; 
Never harder task was entered on by mortal, 
For three lions fierce guarded the second portal ; 
Loudly though they roared, he cared not for their 

roaring, 
At his feet they lay, all drenched and drown'd their 

gore in ; 
For the trusty sword that bade the bears defiance, 
Summarily served the subjugated lions. 
Thus encouraged, Janos, valiantly advancing, 
Found for dangers new his courage old enhancing. 
When the third day dawned, the third gate, which 

looked stronger, 
Threatened to detain the venturous hero longer ; 
Help us, gracious heavens ! a griffin stood before him, 
'T would not have been strange had shudderings come 

o'er him ; 
Grim the griffin's claws, his bowlings loud, though 

hollow, 
And he could, at once, a herd of oxen swallow. 
Silent Janos stood, in undefined intention, 
Yet among his wants, he wanted not invention ; 



106 JANOS, THE HEKO. 

Looking on his sword-blade, which he prest with 

kisses, 
" Canst thou help me now in such a work as this is." 
Janos looked into his open cavern maw there, 
Saw the sharpened fangs that garrisoned his jaw there ; 
Then without delay, no how-ing and no if-ing, 
Sprang into the throat of the astonished griffin ; 
Safe beyond the fangs, he shouted as he entered, 
"I must find the place where thy foul heart is centred ;" 
And he carved his way with his good sword and 

found it, 
Tore it from its throne, and laughing danced around 

it; 
And he cut a passage thro' the dragon's side then, 
All his work was done, his wishes satisfied then ; 
Looking round he saw, and joyfully said, " There is 
Bidding me come in ! the lovely land of fairies ! " 

XXVI. 

Winter comes not there, the fruits and flowerets 

blasting ; 
But there reigns a spring of beauty everlasting : 
There no suns are seen ascending and descending, 
But a gentle light — a dawn-time never ending ; 



JANOS, THE HERO. 



107 



There they fly about on never wearied pinions, 
Death was never known in those divine dominions ; 
There no thoughts are found of idle earthly blisses, 
But they live a life of loves and joys and kisses ; 
Grief has there no tears, if tears are ever falling, 
They are only tears, hope, happiness recalling ; 
And when tears are dropped, in marvellous trans- 
formations, 
All the tears are turned to diamond constellations ; 
And the fairy children, midst their songs and dances, 
Heavenly rainbows spin of the gay light that glances 
From those radiant eyes, and warp them in the 

fringes 
Of the evening clouds, like those which sunset tinges. 
There are beds of flowers — sweet violets, scarlet roses — 
Where they lay them down, and when the eyelid 

closes, 
Odorous zephyrs fan the senses, and romances 
Other than their own awake their playful fancies ; 
Ours are dreams — all dreams from fairy land ideal, 
Shadowing things, at best, all worthless, all unreal ; 
But the love that binds the virtuous and the youthful, 
That indeed is bliss, the truest of the truthful. 



108 JANOS, THE HERO, 



XXVII. 

Emerald fields were spread, which, from the mom to 
even, 

Washed by fragrant dews, refreshing dews from 
heaven, 

Never lost their leaves and never dropped their 
flowers, 

Withered not by cold, nor crushed by tropic showers. 

When the stranger came, how did the fairies meet 
him? 

with smiles of love they hurried forth to greet him ; 

Stretched their friendly hands, they smoothed his 
locks, and bore him 

To the lovely isle they pointed out before him : 

One enchanting scene, to scenes still more enchanting 

Led him ; he was sad — one blessedness was wanting ; 

"What was all to him ? Iluska ! that dear being 

Absent — all he saw was scarcely worth the seeing. 

"In these realms of love, where all is sweet com- 
munion ; 

"Why am I alone ? The only hallowed union 

Which my soul desires is broken and is blasted — 

Why is all this bliss with my sad woe contrasted ? " 



JANOS, THE HERO. 109 

Then in his despair he sought a neighbouring river — 

" Here will I inter my misery for ever." 

From his breast he tore the rose that he had taken 

From Iluska's grave, and cried, with agony shaken, 

" Thou my only treasure, nourished from the ashes 

Of Iluska, go ! " Into the stream he dashes 

That dear flower — " I follow " — when, wond'rous 

wonder ! 
Up there rose a form, where Janos' rose sunk under ; 
' Twas Iluska ! yes ! it was Iluska, — never 
Had she seemed so lovely. Plunging in the river 
Janos seized his love — heavenly visitation ! 
Heart sufficing bliss — more than soul's salvation ! 
Soon he found the stream, — the stream was the reality 
Poets dreamed of once — its name was "Immor- 
tality," 
Whence Iluska's dust, which in the rose was blended, 
To immortal life, out of her tomb ascended. 

Many a tale I've told, and yet should fail in telling 
Such a tale as this, all other tales excelling : 
How he grasped the maid, and passionately prest her 
To his beating heart, and smiled and kissed and blest 

her! 
Even the fairies felt, and recognized her beauty, 
To admire and love was a delighted duty ; 



110 JANOS, THE HERO. 

And they hailed her Queen of all the fairy regions, 
And made Janos king, and swore them both allegiance. 
There they reigned, and there they reign, in bliss 

supernal, 
Love's eternal power brings happiness eternal ; 
Would you fully learn love's mighty, marvellous 

mystery, 
Go to fairyland and study Janos' history. 



Ill 



PEEPLEXITY. 

A virdgnah megtiltani nem leliet. 

What modest flower will hesitate to bloom, 

When the Spring's sweet voiced welcoming bids it 

"Come!" 
Woman is Spring, and when she speaks, " list!" 
Can love that's bedded in man's heart resist? 

Heaven-blue campanula ! within thy bell 
I felt as if my spirit loved to dwell ; 
Danced gaily with thy dancing gaily, while 
My smile was magic-mirrored in thy smile. 

Solve thou the question that perplexes me — 
Am I the loved one ? Is another he ? 
As in the autumn, sun and storm contest 
For victory, doubts are struggling in my breast. 

O tell me ! tell me ! for my bane or bliss, 
Whom wilt thou rapture with thy rose-lip kiss ? 
Will thy soft cheek, a cheek more favoured press, 
While I seek death in the wild wilderness? 



112 BRIGHT EYES. 

star of beauty ! Bless me with thy light, 
Condemn me not to hopeless, rayless night ! 
Pearl of my heart ! accept that heart of mine, 
And blessings, boundless blessings, shall be thine. 



DREAMING. 

Almodom-e ? 

Is it a dream that shows me 
Yonder vision airy ? 

Is she a mortal maiden ? 
Is she a spirit fairy ? 

Whether maiden or fairy, 
Little indeed I care, 

"Would she only love me, 
Smiling sweetly there. 



BRIGHT EYES. 

Nem nezek en, mineh neznek az egref 

I look not upwards to the azure skies, 
Eaint is their blue contrasted with thine eyes ; 
Thine eyes shall be my heaven — the heavens above 
Are far less lovely than thine eyes of love. 



NIGHT. 113 

The world would not be worth or hopes or sighs, 
Were it not brightened by thy deep blue eyes ; 
Without those eyes, all darkness, all despair, 
A world of dying joy and cankering care ! 

Seek not my image in those starry eyes, 
For there that image undiscovered lies ; 
I hide my treasures in my grief, and thence 
Flow forth some rays of hope and confidence. 



NIGHT. 
Boldog ejjel. 



holy night ! 

1 wander with my love 
Thro' garden and thro' grove, 
In love's delight. 

Around, all still, 

But sharp and shrill 

The bells are heard from far ; 

On heaven's blue floor, 

Are shining o'er, 

One moon and many a star. 



114: TO MY HOKSE. 

'Tis not my lot 

To be a star in heaven, nor would I be 

Removed from thee, 

For life would not be life where thou wert not. 

The light of Eden, 

Thou absent, maiden ! 

"Would soon in darkness close ; 

And I should fly, 

Down from the sky, 

To dwell with thee, sweet mundane rose. 



TO MY HORSE. 

Gyere lovam, liadd tegyem rdd nyergem. 

Come, and be saddled, steed ! I must be hieing 
To my sweet love, for whom my soul is sighing ; 
My foot is stirruped, — all thy strength is needed 
To o'ertake my soul, which hath my steps preceded. 

Lo ! that wild bird, whose rapid flight is winging 
Towards his dear mate, that waits him, sweetly singing ; 
On, on my steed ! outstrip that bird, swift-moving, — 
His loving is no stronger than my loving. 



115 

THE TIKED STEED. 

Bovidre fogtam a kantdrszdrat. 

Tighter the reins of my poor steed I drew, 

For he was weary, and I weary too ; 

His mouth was white with foam, his sides with blood 

Were red — and I was breathless as I rode. 

One thought possessed my spirit, only one — 
"And is my dovelet mine and mine alone?" 
It haunted me like piercing thorns, when prest 
By unseen influence on the songster's breast. 

Tired must thy limbs be, and thy paces slow, 
If sympathising with such thoughts of woe ; 
Well may the blood run down thy sides, if torn 
With such a sharp and agonizing thorn. 

Time was I revelled in bright purple eyes, 

They scorned me, inaccessible the prize ; 

Black eyes have now entranced me — Gracious heaven ! 

let me not to black despair be driven ! 



116 



WTNE AND SONG. 
Semmi vdgyam, semmi Tcedvem. 

No laurel garlands would I claim, 
Oak-crowns of wisdom, bays of fame ; 
But let some dear Hungarian maid, 
For me a purple grape-bunch braid ! 
I for the poet and the grape, 
A sweet similitude can shape, — 
Each to the world benignant gives 
The spirit that within it lives : 
The grape its generous, joyous wine, 
The poet songs and hymns divine ; 
Each pouring a spontaneous flood 
Of light and love, of grace and good ; 
Each the deep wounds of sorrow healing, 
Each some unbudded joy revealing, 
Each to heaven's treasury belongs, 
And blesses earth with sweets and songs. 



117 



FAITHFULNESS. 



BozsaboTcor a domb oldalon. 

There on the mountain a rose-blossom blows, 
Bend o'er my bosom thy forehead which glows ; 
Whisper, whisper sweet words in mine ear, 
Say that thou lovest me, — what rapture to hear ! 

Down on the Danube the evening sun sinks, 
Gilding the wavelets that dance on its brinks ; 
As the sweet river has cradled the sun, 
Cradled I rest upon thee, lovely one ! 

I have been slandered, the slanderers declare — 
Let God forgive them, — I utter no prayer ; 
Now let them listen, while prayerful I pour 
All my heart's offerings on her I adore. 



118 



NOON DAY. 
Meleg del van itt hinn a mezijben. 

Fiercely pours the noon-day sun its streams 
Unexhausted, while its burning beams 
Drive to shadowy grounds the birds for air, 
And the wearied hounds lie panting there. 

Two tired girls turn o'er the hay-falls sweet, 
Two tired swains are binding sheaves of wheat, — 
Listless all, — for on a day like this 
Toil the heaviest of oppressions is. 

Here a king may rest on sofas nappy, 
There the Gulya's peasant youth be happy : 
Golden thrones may give to princes rest, 
Let the swain sleep on his maiden's breast ! 



119 



THE BETYAR. 

A csapldrne a betydrt szerette. 

The landlady smiled on the Betyar — but he 
No charm in the landlady's smiling could see, 
For the landlady's pretty young daughter had given 
A smile that was sweeter, a sunbeam of heaven. 

The landlady riled with this scorn of her love, 
From her threshold the maid, in her jealousy, drove ; 
In a cold biting winter compelled her to roam, 
And wandering she found neither shelter nor home. 

She wandered, thro' storm and thro' snow, on the heath, 
And, wearied and wasted, was frozen to death ; 
The Betyar he found her cold corpse, and he flew 
To the inn, in his wrath, and the landlady slew. 

He heard from the judge the death-dealing sentence, — 
No word of regret, no thought of repentance ; 
He had lost all he cared for, and listened unmoved 
To the mandate which sent him to her he had loved. 



120 




TO AN UNJUST JUDGE. 
Biro, hiro, Jiisatalod. 



Gibes and jests are little meet 
For the solemn judgment seat ! 
He should speak with bated breath, 
Who deals out the doom of death. 



Hush ! he heareth. Break the plate 
Into potsherds — death his fate ; 
Lead the youth to meet his doom — 
To the headsman — to the tomb. 



At the uprising of the sun 
Falls the head to earth — 'tis done- 
And a purple stream of gore 
Spouts upon th' ensanguined floor. 



TO AN UNJUST JUDGE. 121 

Moonlight came — the victim stood 
Stately in the solitude — 
He, who 'neath the gallows tree 
Was that morning buried — he ! 

And the head — his right-hand there 
Held by the entangled hair ; 
In the darkness, through the street, 
Stalked — the unjust judge to meet, 

" Instrument of perjury ! 
Guiltless thou did'st sentence me ! " 
So in shrieks the spectre spoke, 
And the unjust judge awoke. 

Conscience — never felt before — 
Drove him trembling to the door ; 
There the ghastly spectre stood, 
Holding up the head of blood. 

All bewildered, back he fled, 
Hid him in his restless bed ; 
But the voice he nightly hears, 
And the bloody head appears. 



122 



DKINK. 
A Idnek nines szeretoje. 

Hast thou no fair maiden ? Drink ! 
Soon thy raptured soul will think 
All fair maidens — all their charms 
Are encircled in thine arms. 

Art thou penniless ? Then drink ! 
Thy delighted soul will think 
Piles of riches fill thy door, 
Thou wilt be no longer poor. 

Do dull cares corrode thee ? Drink ! 
Soon thy buoyant heart shall think 
Thousand sprites are come to bear 
All thy sorrows otherwhere. 

Maiden ! money ! I have none, 
Mine is misery alone ; 
And for these three griefs of mine, 
I must thank thee — dangerous wine ! 






123 



EBLAU-ECHOES. 

Foldon ho, fellio az egen. 

On earth the snow, the clouds on heaven, 

And what upon the ice ? 
What to expect when winter enters, 

But what is winterwise ? 
I looked within — of winter's presence 

I well may doubt ; 
But doubt not if beyond the window 

I look without. 



Here, warm and cosy, I am sitting, 

Where laughing friends abound, 
And the red wine from Erlau's mountain 

Is passing gaily round : 
Good wine, good friends, when met together, 

Bring peace and joy, 
And in the bosom's warmth enkindled 

Bliss rises high. 



124 EELAU ECHOES. 

And could that bliss its seeds be bearing, 

I'd sow them on the snow, 
And, blossoming there, a grove of roses 

Amidst the ice would grow ; 
And if my glowing heart in transport 

To heaven were hurled, 
Instead of the uncertain sunshine, 

'Twould warm the world. 

These are the rocks where Dobo printed 

His name in Moslem gore, 
On pages where his courage graven 

Shall perish never more. 
He was a man of men, unequalled 

The fame shall be, 
Till in its course the Danube hurries 

Back from the sea. 

The early deeds of Magyar glory 

Are faded, and our home 
Is palsied, and the Magyar people 

Weak, stupefied, and dumb. 
Will then spring-dawn return awakened 

Some future day ; 
And our dark hearths again be brightened, 

Oh ! who can say ? 



ERLAU ECHOES. 125 

But for a day be all forgotten — 

Forgotten till to-morrow — 
The passing hour we will not darken 

With such a dismal sorrow. 
And shall our plaints reflect for ever 

A bootless smart ? 
The breaking lyre's last death- vibration 

May break man's heart. 

Away then all this anguish wasted ! 

Flung far from you and me, 
Let emptied glasses be the coffins 

For burying memory ! 
Another glass, and yet another — 

Another glass — 
Fill — drink — re-fill — and drink, and empty 

The earlier mass ! 

Well ! now a dream my soul possesses, 

Each glass a century be, 
The present gone, the future beaming, 

Beaming with liberty. 

joy 1 joy ! the land's redemption 

Is now at hand ; 

1 see arrayed in freedom's glory 

The Fatherland. 



126 



AFTER A REVEL. 

Ez volt aztdn az ejszaha. 

That was indeed a glorious night, 

When all inspired with Magyar wine, 

We saw the hallowed past return — 
That was, indeed, a night divine ! 

There was a second Mohac's fight — 

The sabre- wielding Turks were there ; 

We saw them in the wine-cup's light-^- 
And we the brave Hungarians were ! 

' Tis true as truth — as valiant men 

We fought — not one, nor two, but all ; 

And dropping from his saddle then, 

We saw the wounded monarch fall. 

And every heavy blow that fell 

From every lifted Magyar hand, 

Appeared prophetic to foretell 

Salvation for the Magyar land. 




127 



TIPPLING. 

Komor, mogorva serfin. 

Like a chafed bear, grim and growling, 

Mister Dozey ! 
Oft you curse the mulberry pimples 

On your nosey ! 
But your cursings, your complainings, 

Mister Dozey ! 
Won't uproot the mulberry pimples 

On your nosey ! 
Sir ! the fault is yours entirely, 

Mister Dozey ! 
If the mulberry pimples thicken 

On your nosey I 
For if you will tipple, tipple, 

Mister Dozey ! 
Mulberry pimples can't but thicken 

On your nosey ! 



128 



MUSINGS. 

Xem ugy van, a mint volt. A foldon. 

Things are not as they were — one year another's 
History obscures ; my present and my past, 

Tho' linked in my life's annals like twin brothers, 
In separate moulds by destiny were cast. 

With a free hand, in ardent friendship glowing, 
I gave my open heart, 'twas full and free ; 

I gave it willingly — not caring, knowing 
How very little it was prized to be. 

And now they ask my heart — I don't retain it, 
I can't bestow it ; answer I have none ! 

And if I might, I would not now regain it ; 
I have no heart, intruder ! so be gone. 

No more my spirit can with love be laden, 
Heartless, I can no longer dream of love, 

Now every sweet and fascinating maiden 
Is a pure angel smiling from above. 



MUSINGS. 129 

That was my thought, but now a new impression 
Has taught me there are angels, not of light ; 

And losing one, I can obtain possession 
Of other angels as attractive quite. 

A homely love was once the sun which lighted 
My inmost soul ; and now I but behold 

A dull blank moon that leaves me half benighted, 
And glimmers coldly on my forehead cold. 

Once on the grave I looked, and calmly sighing, 
After life's labours, welcomed its repose ; 

Now will I dare my doom, and death defying, 
Be careless of life's cradle, course, or close. 

I was as moulder's clay, smooth, soft and plastic, 
But now am marble ; and repelling all, 

As a hard wall repels, with bound, elastic, 

The ball flung violently 'gainst the wall. 

Time was when a sweet maid, and white wine sim- 
mering, 
And the bright blaze of noon-tide suns were mine, 
Now but the dregs — a reckless wife — no glimmering 
Of light, for me no single star shall shine ! 

9 



130 



MASTEE PAUL. 

Pal mester illyformdn okoslcodott. 

Master Paul was angry, — in his ire 

Threw his hat, 
Like a log, into the blazing fire, — 

What of that ? 
Talked about his wife till he was hoarse : 
" Curse her — I'll apply for a divorce ! 
No ! I'll chase her out of doors instead " — 
And he did exactly what he said. 

Master Paul got cooler after that — 

Very cool ! 
" What a fool to throw away my hat — 

What a fool ! 
What a fool to drive her from the door, 
Now I shall be poorer than before ; 
For she kept the house, and earned her bread," 
And it was exactly as he said. 



MASTER PAUL. 131 

Master Paul got angrier, angrier yet, — 

Took his hat — 
Flung it from him in his passionate pet — 

What of that? 
" Toil and trouble is man's wretched lot, 
And one more misfortune matters not — 
Let it go — unsheltered be my head " — 
And he did exactly as he said. 

Freed from all this world's anxieties — 

Master Paul 
Pulled his hat indignant o'er his eyes — 

"All, yes! all: 
All is gone, my partner and my pelf, 
Nought is left me but to hang myself, 
So of all my troubling cares get rid " — 
And exactly as he said he did. 



132 



THE GOOD TEACHEK. 

Van hi% ott a sole rosz Icozott. 

Amidst the preachings of our many preachers, 

Only a very few 
Are worthy of our self-created teachers, 

As good or true. 

But once I learnt in youth, what yet abideth 

On memory's page ; 
It was an old man's lesson, and it glideth 

From youth to age. 

Bald was his head and grey, and bore serenely 

The weight of years ; 
Youth's spring flowers he had gathered, nor felt keenly, 

Time's lost arrears. 

There was one flower immortal, for it ever 

Bloomed on its bed — 
That bed, the old man's nose, where faded never — 

The poppy red. 



THE GOOD TEACHER. J 

And every day it glowed more brightly, when 

The fostering wine 
Nourished its roots, and bade the flower again 

Bichly to shine. 

It was a marvellous plant, that night and morning 

More brilliant grew, — 
Not needing dews of heaven, and even scorning 

The cellar dew. 

Under the nose roof, a moustachio hairy- 
Looked gravely round ; 

One end was pointed upward, light and airy, 
One to the ground. 

'Neath the moustachio was an open mouth, 

Where a pipe hung, 
The mouth was like a cavern's depth, uncouth, 

Which caged a tongue. 

He wore a coat called Zrinyi, made of yore, 

'Neath Arpads race, 
Of the old colours it no colour bore — 

No ! not a trace. 



134 



THE GOOD TEACHER. 



The buttons on the coat that covered those limbs 

Were ancient jobs, 
That had been used for shooting at the Moslems, 

Old, rough, round knobs. 

There were such zig-zag laces, bobs and tags, 

In strange array, 
That midst them even the lightning's wild zig-zags 

Soon lost their way. 

With him, for many a month and year, I had 

Much intercourse ; 
A noble fellow was the ancient lad, 

Worth just — his horse. 

He taught me much, experience much he brought me 

'Tis useful yet — 
And all the cunning lessons that he taught me 

I'll not forget. 



And I was grateful then, and I repaid him 

In grateful glee ; 
Treasured his precious counsels, and obeyed him 

Most reverently. 



CYPRESS LEAVES. 135 

I gave him sausages and ham and bacon, 

All of the best ; 
Which from mine host's own knapsack I had taken — 

I was his guest. 



CYPEESS LEAVES. 
Ldttam Mt hosszu nap ! 

Two long days thy body 
On its bier reposed, 

And thy lips were speechless, 
And thine eyelids closed. 

And T kissed thy forehead — 
Tablet of my bliss — 

Then I felt the anguish 

Of the unwelcomed kiss. 

O thou broken altar ! 

Kissing thy cold brow, 
In that kiss my spirit 

Froze to chilling snow. 



136 CYPRESS LEAVES. 

Then I kissed the cerements, 
Then I kissed the bier, 

Heard the knell of exile, 
Dropt the farewell tear, 

Saw the torches naming 
O'er the coffin there, 

Heard the chant funereal, 
My response — despair ! 

There I stood — mute statue ! 

On the senseless sod — 
Heard upon the coffin 

Fall the earthly clod. 

Heard it, yet perceived not 
All the weight of woe : 

Dreamed — and yet believed not 
Such an overthrow. 

To the world I turned me, 

From its wild confusion — 

Asked for my lost treasure, 
In my soul's delusion. 



CYPRESS LEAVES. 137 

Idly, vainly sought it, 

Then I hastened home, 
And shall mourn for ever 

O'er my hopeless doom. 



Ha elteben nem szerettem volna. 

Had I not loved that blonde-haired, beauteous child, 
Moving on earth, and breathing living breath, 

I should have worshipped it upon my knees, 
When sleeping it was sanctified by death. 

How blest, how beautiful that sleep ! I saw 

A white swan rising thro' the red-dawn eaves ; 

While the pure snow, among the winter roses, 

Dissolved by death was melted on their leaves. 



Jdtszik or eg foldiinh — 

How the ancient earth 

The young sun, her brother, 
Welcomes, — in their mirth, 

Kissing one another. 



138 



CYPKESS LEAVES. 

See ! the sunny beams 

Temple, steeple, shrine, 
Mountains, valleys, streams, 
Kissing as they shine. 

Calmly wakes the sun, 

Calmly wends him home- 
Has the careless one 

Seen Etelka's tomb ? 



Mi bilrdsbdjos hang. 

with what fascinating bursts and swells 
Breaks out the music of the village bells, 
Upon the ear of the roused peasant falling, 
And to the church devotions gently calling ! 
What sweet remembrances that music brings 
Of early thoughts, and half- forgotten things ; 
Things half forgotten, yet on these past dreams 
Distinct, as living life, one figure beams 
In brightness and in youthful beauty — she 
Sleeps her long sleep beneath the willow tree ; 
There I my never- wearied vigils keep, 
And there I weep, and cannot cease to weep. 



139 

MORE LOVE. 

Szeretnek mar szeretni ujolag. 

I long for more of love — without the flower 
Of what avail the garden ? what, in truth, 

Without youth's fairest rose — life's sweetest dower- 
Love, holy love, what were life or youth ? 

I loved, but sadness came with love, and stilled 
My spirit into silence ; yet I deemed 

That silent sadness which my spirit filled 

The sweetest dream that fancy ever dreamed. 

heaven ! if sad and silent love like this, 
Had in it such delight, such extasy ? 

What must the brightness be, and what the bliss 
Of love, from silence and from sadness free ? 

My heart is like a bird, that here and there 

Homelessly wandering, fain would build a nest 

could I find some maiden's bosom, where 

My wandering spirit might find love and rest ! 



140 MAY-NIGHT. 

Were this niy blessed, blessed destiny, 

Should I forget the dear departed — No ! 

Flowers opening at the mountain's foot may lie, 

Whose head is covered with th' unmelted snow ! 



MAY-NIGHT. 

Ej van, csend es nyugalomnah eje. 

Night of May ! thou night of peace and silence, 
When the moonlight silvers the starr'd vault ; 

Tell me then blonde-maiden ! blue-eyed floweret, 

Shining pearl ! what thoughts thy heart assault. 

Mine are misty dreamings, passing shadows ; 

But they keep me sleepless — crowning me 
Like the monarch of a mighty kingdom, 

And the crown is held, dear maid ! is held by thee. 

What a theft it were, and what a contrast 

With the trashy purse that thieves purloin, 

Could I steal these dreams, and then convert them 
Into solid and substantial coin. 



141 



IGNOKANCE OF LOVE. 

Sohasem volt az szerelmes, a hi. 

Little knows he of love's sweet fascinations, 
Who calls them fetters, fit for slavery ; 

For love gives wings to soar, not chains to humble, 
And on his pinions to the stars I fly. 

No eagle, tho' above the clouds ascending, 

Has pinions half so strong as those of love— 

They take me where the earth is but an atom, 

Seen from the infinite heights of heaven above. 



They open to me those celestial gardens 

Where bloom the odorous flowers that know no 
death ; 
They wreathe the stars into immortal garlands, 

And my proud brow encircle with the wreath. 



/ 



142 a vow. 

Bright glances of the noon, then midnight darkness,. 

In wild succession swiftly come and go ; 
The sudden shif tings of creative fancies — 

Deities, devils — blessedness and woe ! 

I fly thro' hell, I fly thro' heaven, — the tortures 

That hell is cursed with, — all, yes, all are mine ; 

Then in an instant is my soul enraptured 

With all that heaven can hold of joy divine. 



A VOW. 

Fa Jeszeh, lia fancik vagy virdga. 

I'll be a tree, if thou wilt be its blossom ; 

I'll be a flower, if thou wilt be its dew : 
I'll be the dew, if thou wilt be the sunbeam ; 

Where'er thou art, let me be near thee too. 
Wert thou the heaven of blue — beloved maiden, — 

I a fixed star in that blue heaven would be : 
And wert thou doomed to hell itself, dear woman, 

I'd seek perdition to be near to thee. 



143 



STAKLESS NIGHTS. 

SORROW AND JOY. 

A bdnat ? egy nagy oczedn. 

And what is. sorrow ? 'Tis a boundless sea. 

And what is joy ? — 

A little pearl in that deep ocean's bed ; 

I sought it — found it — held it o'er my head, 

And, to my soul's annoy, 

It fell into the ocean's depth again, 

And now I look and long for it in vain. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

Derek fiulc, mont hagyogatnalc el ! 

Friends came — false friends — and left me as they came, 

As they came, let them go, in God's own name ! 

As leaves they fell from the abandoned tree, 

That leafless tree, my heart — so let it be ! 

But though the cold winds blow those leaves away, 

A future spring will herald a bright day ; 

And heaven be gladdened when the earth is glad ; 

But, when the old branches with new leaves are clad, 

Of the fallen leaves — ye false ones ! be it known — 

None shall grow green again, not even one. 



144 STARLESS NIGHTS. 

THE GEAVE. 

Ha a sirban megszdradt. 

If from the abysses of the grave, 

We could tear up the hearts there mouldering. 
And kindle them in a gigantic fire, 

Then watch them burning, blazing, smouldering, 
who could name 
The many colours of the flame, 
Which would burst forth from the funereal pyre ? 



INDIFFERENCE. 

Viseld egyformdn jo s bal sorsodat ! 

' With calm indifference good and evil bear : " 
So saith the sage, and so the world replies ; 
But not too wisely — 'tis not my device ; 
Pleasures and pains, — my comfort and my care- 
Must leave their impress, both of ill and good ; 
My soul is not a flood, 

Equally moved, when a sweet infant throws 
O'er me a scattered rose, 
As when the whirlwind brings 
Down from the forest a torn trunk, and flings 
It furiously upon my wanderings. 



STARLESS NIGHTS. 145 

TIIE WORLD'S SLAVERY. 

Millyen vig a vildg ! folyvdst mikent vigad I 

What gaieties, what sports, what pleasures throng 

The world, so full of music and of song ! 

But ask the noisiest in the deadening noise, 

" Are these substantial joys ? " 

I doubt, I doubt : in the confusion there, 

I hear the loud explosions of despair ; 

"While the chains clank, the half-demented spirit 

Seeks in the turbulent clamour not to hear it ; 

The world is but a jailer — holds our whole 

Body and limbs in fetters ; would retain 

Our very soul in slavery's cursed chain ; 

But that — we have no soul I 



SPRING. 

Mi ~kek az eg I 

How blue the heaven serene ! 
The blooming earth how green ! 
O'er emerald fields, the heavenly concave blue, 
The sweet tones of the lark are pouring through ; 
The sun seems looking down, and listens with delight, 
Midst scenes so sweet and strains so exquisite. 

10 



146 HUNGARIAN PLAINS. 

How blue the heaven serene ! 

The blossoming earth how green ! 

Green is the earth and blue the heaven : the spring 

Is come, and I, to my lone chamber bound, 

Look not on heaven above, nor earth around, 

But sing my gloomy songs — wearied, my songs I sing. 



HUNGAEIAN PLAINS. 

Mit nekem te zordon Jcdiydtohialc. 

Whence the influence strange, ye Carpathian moun- 
tains, 

Wild romantic forests, where the fir trees, moving, 
Bring to me the sense of beauty and of grandeur, 

But no thoughts nor dreams of longing or of loving ? 

But the broad, flat plains, extended in the distance, 
Wide in their expanse, and level as the ocean ; 

When on these I look, like an enfranchised eagle, 
All my soul is moved with magical emotion. 



HUNGARIAN PLAINS. 147 

Bear me upwards then — high, high above earth's bosom, 
To the realms where roll the clouds in their careering, 

Let me at my feet behold the mighty Danube, 

Towards the laughing Theiss with steps majestic 
steering. 

' Neath the Delibab, 1 see the outstretched Rumania, 
Covered with its herds under the roof of heaven ; 

How they track their course onward in steady silence, 
Towards the running stream to slack their thirsts 
at even. 

Now I hear the rush, the galloping of the horses ; 

Battling of the hoofs I hear, and nostrils snorting ; 
Cracking of the whips, and shouting of the Csikos ; 

Laughs and merry song, and echoes of the sporting. 

In the cottage meadows, rocked by gentle zephyrs, 
Eoll the golden corn- waves o'er their crests ascend- 
ing ; 

Forests tower aloft, while hang on trees prolific 
Fruits like rubies red, with leaves of emerald 



blending. 



» Mir; 



148 HUNGARIAN PLAINS. 

Hither come the flocks of wild geese from the marshes, 
When the dying light portends the evening's gloam- 
ing; 
Midst the reeds they hear the startled breezes rustling, 
And, alarmed, take flight towards the high heaven 
roaming. 

On the Puszta's waste, close to a ruined cottage, 
With fallen chimney, stands the Csarda — lonely 
dwelling. 
There the Betyars meet, from many markets gathered, 
There their songs are singing, there their tales are 
telling. 

In the Linden wood, adjacent to the Csarda, 
Built upon the sands of melon tinge, is nested 

The tower-falcon, screaming shrill, but never 
In his deep recess by truant lads molested. 

Orphan-maiden-hair in those retreats is growing, 
And the thistles blue their spiky heads are waving, 

Sheltered at whose foot repose the scattered acorns, 
Which the dews of morn and dews of night are 
laving. 



THE WOODS. 149 

Far away where heaven the fettered earth has girded, 
Fruit trees, with their wealth, the distant landscape 
cover ; 

While we dimly trace a pale and misty column — 
' Tis the village spire the green fields towering over. 

All is charming — all — at least, to me 'tis charming ; 

On the flat land born and bred — I well may love it ; 
'Neath its sod let me repose in peace and silence, 

When my corpse is wrapt in funeral shroud above it. 



THE WOODS 

Sotetzold sdtoros. 



Bound the dark-green circle of the woods I wander, 
Looking on the flowers the high oaks blooming under; 
Birds among the branches, bees among the flowers, 
Music all around us bursting from the bowers ; 
Flowers and trees are still, yet seem alive and wary, 
Listening to the hymns of nature's sanctuary. 
Is all sleeping here ? the forest, flowers, and furrows, 
Let me stand and muse forgetful of my sorrows. 



150 THE CLOUDS. 

Careless, senseless rolls the river on the pebbles — 
What has thought to do with these impetuous rip- 
ples ! 
See ! the stream outruns the flying cloudy shadows, 
As they darkly pass over the mirroring meadows ; 
they image well my fancy's foolish doing, 
When youth's giddy dreams of happiness pursuing ; 
Memory fades — 'tis well it fades — there's no regretting, 
Wherefore came I here ? 'Twas only for forgetting. 



THE CLOUDS 

Ha maddr vohiek. 



Were I a bird my throne I'd build 
Among the clouds supernal, 

And all those flying shadows gild 
With beams of light eternal. 

Should we not love the heavenly host 
That grandly rolls above us ? 

They pass, and each in each is lost, 
Yet lingeringly love us. 



THE CLOUDS. 151 

On me at least they seem to shine, 

Their tender glances bringing ; 
These wanderers thro' the light divine, 

They listen to my singing. 

I've listened to the harmonies 

Of those serene evangels, 
Whose sounds of music filled the skies 

Like anthems of the angels, 

Or children's voices — children bound 
To heaven — in clouds I saw them ; 

Shadows of life and death around, 
And earth far, far below them. 

And then I watched the pale moon's face, 

Whose melancholy beauty, 
Soft clouds — the ministers of grace, 

Watched in attendant duty. 

And every fashion, every form 

Was graceful and attractive, 
And seemed my inmost soul to warm 

With inspirations active. 



152 THE STORK. 

With sympathies, which echoing fill 
That soul with their own blisses, 

And new emotions throb and thrill 
Thro' all its deep abysses. 

how those clouds resemble well 

Life's darkening and life's brightening, 

To me of gushing tears they tell, 

They tell of passion's lightning. 



THE STOEK. 

Sokfele a maddr, s egyek azt, mdsik azt. 

Many birds there are ; their manifold admirers 

Can't agree together — 
Some preferred for fascinating song, and others 

For resplendent feather. 

I will choose a bird that has no voice for music, 

Wears no garment bright ; 
Simple like myself, and clothed in simple vestments, 

Only black and white. 



THE STORK* 153 

Yes ! of all the birds the stork is my beloved, 

He, the son of home ; 
From his mother-country, from his favourite flat-land, 

Seldom will he roam. 

He and I are trained in sympathy together ; 

Oft he hovered nigh, 
When I was a child, and crying in my cradle, 

Heard my childish cry. 

And with him I passed the early years of childhood, 

Smilingly they fled ; 
Well do I remember when my young companions 

Home the oxen led ! 

Eecollection sweet of those dear days departed, 

Faithful memory brings, 
When I saw the storklets on the chimneys, fanning 

Their unfeathered wings. 

Many thoughts disturbed me, many wayward fancies 

Flitted strangely by ; 
Why did heaven to man, with all his upward longings, 

Give no wings to fly ? 



154 THE STORK. 

Why were mortal footsteps to earth's limits bounded ? 

To heaven upward never ; 
But these earthly limits cannot hold my spirit, 

Soaring upwards ever. 

Yes ! I must soar heavenward, passionately longing 

For the sunny land ; 
O'er earth's highest heights, on which the golden 
temples, 

Midst the sunbeams stand. 

But the sun goes down, I see the evening shadow 

Bring the veil of night ; 
Saddened with the thought — how frail, how transitory 

All that lives in light. 

Then I long for autumn, like a tender mother, 

Bringing baskets piled 
With the sweetest fruits, to pour into the apron 

Of her smiling child. 

Fruits for me it brings not — autumn after autumn 

Bipens nought for me ; 
Leaves me lost and lonely, and my stork hath sped him 

O'er the distant sea. 



THE STORK. 155 

Many grieved hearts saw I when the storks departed 

On their exile -flight ; 
'Twas like youth's sad passing, and I followed grieving 

Till my wearied sight 



Lost their trace : I sorrowing sought, upon the house- 
tops, 

Their abandoned nest, 
Scattered — mournful augury of the mournful future — 

For my thoughts opprest. 



And when winter's hand shall fling the snowy mantle 

O'er the face of earth — 
Whitening the green meadows, veiling flowers and 
forests 

For another birth, 



I will clothe my soul in purity's own garment, 

Waiting thy return ; 
Homebound stork ! I'll scour the fields, the plains to 
meet thee, 

Leaping beck and bourne. 



156 THE STORK. 

From the sparks the flame ascends, and so the infant 

Grows up to the child, 
While the heather burns beneath, my good steed bears 
me f 

Over the waste wild. 



Loosen then the bridle, press the spur, — on ! onward 



Leaving all behind ; 



Even the rushing wind tries vainly to o'ertake me, 
Fleeter than the wind. 

I love that wild, for there I live in freedom, 

As no otherwhere ; 
There my eyes embrace a limitless horizon — 
Not imprisoned there. 

No dark mountains bound creation's grand arena ; 

Dancing o'er the plains 
There no streams run down, whose ringing might 
remind me 

Of the tyrant's chains. 

Beautiful the Puszta, with her fascinations 

Manifest — concealed — 
Like a modest maiden, rich in charms unnumbered, 

Yet so sweetly veiled. 









THE STORK. 157 

But that veil is lifted for the dear, the loved one, 

By her graceful hands ; 
And in all the glory of her bright-eyed beauty 

There the charmer stands. 

Beautiful the Puszta ! on my neighing courser 

How I sweep the heath, 
Where no track of gold attracts the thirsty worldling ; 

But a calm like death 

To much musing calls me, bids me hear the voices 

Breaking from the breeze ; 
And mine own dear stork, above the lake rejoicing, 

My blest vision sees. 

Welcome, dear companion ! we'll explore together 
Wastes, and heaths, and hedges ; 

I will watch the winds that play upon the waters, — 
Thou amidst the sedges. 

So it was of old — I loved thee in my childhood ! 

Why — I scarcely knew ; 
For thou hast no song, and wear'st no gaudy plumage, 

Yet my love was true. 



158 THE PUSZTA IN WINTER. 






And I love thee still, when thought and time find 
reason 

For the love ; it seems 
Like a ray of truth, which midst the dark oblivion 

Of past memories beams. 

Thou wilt not forget the time of thy returning — 

Hither wilt thou wend ; 
And when autumn comes, I'll bless xhee at departing, 

As niy oldest friend. 



THE PUSZTA IN WINTER. 

ffejh, mostan puszta dm igdzdn a puszta. 

O'er the widening Puszta's plains, in plains still 
widening lost, 

See autumn's heralds round — a melancholy host ! 
The flowers that spring unfolded, 
The fruits that simmer moulded — 

All — all the thriftless autumn flings away, 

And leaves to winter darkness and decay. 



THE PTJSZTA IN WINTER. 159 

No longer heard from far the sheep-bells tinkling 

sound, 
No longer shepherds' pipes fling their sweet music 
round ; 

No more the birds are filling, 
With their melodious thrilling, 
Heaven's arch ! Still'd is the genet's whispering, 
And even the grasshopper has ceased to sing. 

The outstretched wilderness is like a frozen sea, 
And as a weary bird the sun sinks wearily ; 

Perhaps some hoary clown 

May watch his going down, 
And silently salute the setting sun — 
But the world heeds not that his race is run. 

Empty the fisher's hut — no voice, no living sign, 
And from the village stalls no lowing of the kine ; 

And if the steeds are driven, 

Before day dawns in heaven, 
To the filled water-troughs — the careless steers 
Look listless on, and shake their shaggy ears. 

The herdsman gathers up the green tobacco leaves, 
Then piles them in a heap, then binds them into 
sheaves : 



160 THE PUSZTA IN WINTER. 

And from his boots he takes 
The pipe — the ashes shakes ; 
Fills it — enkindles it — and, half asleep, 
Looks on the lazy oxen and the sheep. 






All — all is silent — all within the Csarda door, 
There the good host and hostess sleep and snore ; 

What tho' the cellar's key 

Be careless thrown away : 
Is the good wine in any danger ? — No ! 
No man can find his way across the snow. 

The north wind and the east in rage contesting blow, 
This storms the heavens above, that shakes the earth 
below ; 

Scatters the snowy flakes, 

As when the bellows makes 
The sparks mount upward from the glowing fire — 
Tempests of hail and rain rave in discordant choir. 

At last they rest exhausted, — o'er the Puszta's bed, 
Like a grey coverlet, a misty shroud is spread ; 

And like a shapeless mass 

I see the Betjar pass ; 
And hear his horse dull-neighing in the wind, — 
The raven o'er him, and the wolf behind. 



WINTER-WORLD. 161 

And as a monarch rules a subjugated land, 
Wearing a golden crown, waving a sceptral wand ; 

So the uprisen sun, 

A more majestic one, 
Surveys his sovereignty, and then sinks down 
To his night's rest, wearing the golden crown. 



WINTER-WORLD. 

Hovd lett a tarha szivdrvany az egr'ol f 

How came from heaven the prismy rainbow hither ? 
Whither are fled the lovely field-flowers, whither ? 
Where the streams music, where the birds' sweet 
singing ? 
Where are the spring and summer's glance and 
glory? 
All — all departed, — but their memory ringing 
Like a funereal bell — records their story : 
Shades of the tomb — the snows — the clouds are left, 
Winter has beggared earth — the earth of all bereft. 

11 



102 



WINTER-WORLD. 



Yes ! earth is but a beggar — a white garment 

Half covering its frame — a mortal cerement ! 

With icicles down-hanging, but so jagged, 

That through the crevices the corpse is peeping, 
With chattering teeth — Ihnbs frozen — girdle ragged, 
A shivering coldness o'er the body creeping : 
Why should man midst the desolation roam, 
If he find warmth and welcome in his home ? 

Blessed be God then ! blessed be kind Heaven ! 
Who a bright fire — a family hearth has given ; 
A family hearth, to warm in winter's chilling, 

And many friends around ; and wood not wanting 
To feed the fire — 'tis like a palace thrilling 
With joy and music — fairy -like, enchanting; 
Where all the friendly words outspoken enter 
The opening hearts, and make those hearts their centre. 

Sweetest of all at eve — then most rejoices 
The listening soul to hear affection's voices ; 
At the large table head, the father hoary 

Presides — the pipes are smoking — from the cellar 
The best old wine goes round, and many a story 
Is told, while loud laughs hail the story-teller : 
New tales, new laughter, greet the circling cup 
Filled up and emptied and again filled up. 



WINTER- WORLD. 163 

And the good housewife everywhere is busy, 

Somewhat o'ercumbered, and a little dizzy ; 

Fearful of this or that to be forgetful ; 

Somewhat too anxious for her house's honour ; 
Yet all her fidgets will not make her fretful; 
Tho' a neglect might bring a shame upon her. 
For every guest she has a smile — a greeting — 
And a kind word of welcome to the meeting. 

Then comes the news — more laughter, and more 

joking ; 
Cleansing the pipes, or stopping them, or smoking ; 
And as the smoke in cloudy wreaths is mounting, 

Memory brings back the tales of days departed ; 
And while the old stories of their youth recounting, 
Youth dawns again, and buoyant and light- 
hearted ; 
Spring seems renewed in all its early truth, 
For age rejoices in the thoughts of youth. 

Look at that youth and maiden on the settle, 
All the old babblings interest them little ; 
Little care they for all the tales and tattle, 

Life is before them — with its dear illusions ; 
Sweeter their whisperings than the rout and rattle, 
Why should misgivings come with their intrusions ? 



164 WINTER-WORLD. 

Let them be blest — enjoy their stolen kisses ; 
Love has its blisses — and these are love's blisses. 

There round the stove the little ones are humming, 
Leaping and laughing, whistling, shouting, drumming ; 
Small children and great children there are piling 
Or blowing down card houses — far from sorrow ; 
Like butterflies they hail the present smiling, 
For yesterday they care not, nor to-morrow. 
How so much room can such small space allow, 
The Future and the Past, how crowd into a Now ? 






'Tis baking-day to-morrow, the maiden singing brightly, 
The yielding dough she kneads, so gaily and so 
lightly ; 
Within the yard the bucket chain above the Avell is 
grating, 
The horses gathered round the trough the spark- 
ling water drinking ; 
The gypsies, offering dance and song, are for the 
answer waiting — 
While from the distance feebly-heard the sheep- 
fold bells are clinking ; 
But every sound and every sight ascending or descend- 
ing, 
From earth to heaven, or heaven to earth, in harmony 
is blending. 



THE SPRING OF 1849. 165 

The snow is falling fast, the earth is mantled over, 
Mists darken— and 'tis hard the house-path to discover : 
There's work to do — -there's hardly time for greet- 
ings and farewellings, — 
Away ! away ! for long ere now the homely 
lamps are lighted, — • 
We must be gone — 'tis late, 'tis late — how shall we 
find our dwellings ? 
The lamps are all gone out, the guests are all 
benighted, 
And still they counsel, still they talk, their purpose 

scarcely knowing, 
And many ask, "Who's going?" — none will answer, 
" I am going." 



THE SPEING OF 1849. 

Ifju lanya a ven telneh. 

Youthful spring — thou ancient winter's 
Beautiful and hopeful son ! 

Wherefore tarry ? come ! establish 

O'er the earth thy rightful throne. 



166 THE SPRING OF 1849. 

Come ! come ! thy friends await thee, 
Looking for thine advent round ; 

Come and gird the azure heaven. 

Come and deck the emerald ground. 

Strengthen thou the feeble twilight, 
Lead it forth to meet the day, 

For it sits upon the mountains, 

Languishing and pale and gray. 

O'er the meadows scatter blessings, 
Flowers of scarlet, gold and blue, 

Water them with tears of heaven — 
Joyful tears — in drops of dew. 

Call the larks, and they shall teach me 
How to welcome thee with song, 

Such as when I think of childhood, 
On my wakened memory throng. 

Need I ask for wreaths and garlands — 
These thou spreadest o'er the land ; 

These are but thy wonted offering, 

These thou bring'st in either hand. 



PLANT FLOWERS UPON MY GRAVE. 167 

Yet one thought of melancholy 

Even thou wilt bring with thee ; 

When I see within the churchyard 
The death-gatherings of the free. 

Free at last ! let them slumber, 

O'er them spread a funeral pall, 
Pile thy flowers upon their grave-heaps, 

Cover them with garlands all. 



PLANT FLOWEES UPON MY GEAVE. 
Ki a mszore hallagoh. 

Oft, oft I wander o'er the meadows, 

Where, midst the grass, the wild flowers blow 
Ye sweet wild flowers I love to linger 

Amidst your many-coloured glow. 
You bring dear thoughts of my beloved, 

And move my heart and swell my breast ; 
Let 'flowers be culled when I am dying, 

And scattered on my place of rest. 



168 PLANT FLOWERS UPON MY GRAVE. 

I bend me o'er the flowers — sweet converse 

I hold with them — soft, silent, true ; 
Tell them I love them — love them dearty, 

And ask them if they love me too ? 
They answer not, but in their smiling 

A gentle answer is exprest ; 
Let flowers be culled when I am dying, 

And scattered on my place of rest. 

Sweet flowers ! sweet flowers ! your very fragrance 

Is eloquent, — the spirit's ear — 
In your vibrations, — heavenly music 

Falling like sunny dews may hear. 
But, in the world's tumultuous uproar, 

The voice is still, of all most blest ; 
cull me flowers when I am dying, 

And fling them on my place of rest. 

Yes ! breath is language, and the breathing 

Of wakened flowers is sacred song ; 
The mysteries of life surround me, 

Bound me death's revelations throng. 
strains of harmony — incense, 

The sweetest and the holiest ! 
Then gather flowers when I am dying, 

And fling them on my place of rest. 






POWER OF LOVE. 169 

Yes ! breath, of flowers, your soft outpourings 

Shall be nay lingering lullaby, 
And with a heavenly hymn support me, 

When on my dying bed I lie. 
The flower-awakening spring shall find me 

A slumberer on my mother's breast ; 
So gather flowers when I am dying, 

And fling them on my place of rest. 



POWEE OF LOYE. 

Az en Icepzeletem nem a por magzatja. 

Think not that my fancy comes from stubble under, 
No ! 'twas born in lightning — no ! 'tis heard in 

thunder ; 
When a babe I drank the hot milk of the dragon, 
When a youth the blood of lions filled my flagon. 

Wild and high its flight — that flight there's no re- 
straining, 
Conquering land and land, and revelling and reigning; 
Now upon the sea in wildest exultation, 
Now twixt earth and heaven in comet-like vibration. 




170 HOPE. 

With a whirlwind's speed, the wilderness embracing 
Glancing thro' the fields, among the forests racing ; 
Rattling round the oak trees, pouring out the 

fountains, 
Raising up the valleys, bringing down the mountains. 

Where is the wild horse so frenziedly that bore me ? 
See, there stands a flower, a smiling flower before me ; 
Like the exhausted gale, with evening's odour laden, 
So I stand subdued before that smiling maiden. 



HOPE. 

Nem csoda lia ujra eleh. 



Wonder not that I am happy, 
I again have seen her face, 

And my wildered, wandering spirit 
Flutters round a resting place. 

Hope and anguish are enkindling 
Torches in my burning breast, 

And the struggle fiercely rages 
Between restlessness and rest. 



HOPE. 171 

Would some friendly spirit tell me, 

"Was the smiling meant for me : 
Was it chance, or was it purpose ? 

Solve, solve the mystery ! 

For the maiden is a riddle, 

Thoughts half veiled and half exprest ; 
Sharp as is my eye I see not 

If 'tis truth or but a jest. 

Yes ! thou art a riddle, maiden I 

Who its hidden sense shall tell — 

If a curse, or if a blessing ? 
One it is, I know too well. 

Which? The riddle, like a fetter, 

Pitilessly binds me round, 
Every struggle for my freedom, 

Makes me feel more tightly bound. 

Doff the veil that shades thy forehead, 
And thy spirit's movement hides ; 

Never can I leave thee, maiden ! 
While that veil by thee abides. 



172 HOPE. 

Tlio' it break my heart, I tear me 
From this dark uncertainty ; 

Not a subject, but a master 
Is our mortal destiny. 

Be it so, but not for ever, 

When the spring's soft breezes sigh, 
And its flowers thy brow encircle — 

Who shall be thy poet— I ? 

He will be the earliest swallow 
Hastening to thy window-sill ; 

Ever circling round thy portals, 

Hailing thee with welcomes shrill. 

In the gardens, in the meadows, 
Shall we not together walk ; 

See the young earth smiling, blushing, 
Hear the streamlet's babbling talk. 

See the flowers their petals open 
To the dew-drops from above ; 

So do thou thy heart, dear maiden, 
Open to the dews of love. 



173 

BLISS. 

Szerctsz telidt, Tcedves szep angyalom f 

Thou lovest me angel ! bright as heaven's own beam ; 
Thou lovest me angel ! and I do not dream ! 

tell me why thy lovely countenance 
Veiled my blest fate until the parting glance ? 

Why did that glance so eloquently tell 
Of a bright welcome and a sad farewell ? 

1 felt as one, who a bright temple planned, 

And built and beautified, and then — 'twas banned ! 

Thee can I not in these fond arms entwine, 
And press thee to my heart and call thee mine ; 
Thy fragrant lips deny a rosy kiss — 
I bear away no flowery wreath of bliss. 

My life will be a misery, far from thee, 
And yet one thought of joy shall comfort me ; 
I shall return to bathe in that deep sea, 
Eich in the white pearls of felicity. 



174 



HE ABT-FLOWEKS. 

Busuhidk a virdgoh. 

When the flowers are mourning 
Autumn's misty weather, 

Whose cold blasts returning, 

Sweeps them o'er the heather. 

As the hair is riven, 

When old age is sorest ; 

As the leaves are driven 

From the unmantled forest. 

Everywhere existence 

Seems by darkness shaded ; 
Clouds invade the distance — 

All by clouds invaded. 

Yet, my living spirit 

Has from love's own far-land 
Gathered — and I wear it — 

An undying garland. 



MARKIAGE-DAY. 175 



What care I for sorrow, 

It shall perish never- 
Careless of the morrow, 
It is green for ever. 



MAE EI AGE-DAY. 

Itt a gyusu, lit a gyiisil. 

On thy finger, on thy finger 

I have placed the wedding ring : 

Now, my wife ! thy kisses bring me — 
Floods of hallowed kisses bring ! 

Kisses warm as are the sunbeams, 
Heaven has sanctified the kiss ! 

Earth among its many blisses — 

Bliss has none so sweet as this. 

Our's be heartful, joyful dalliance ; 

Press thy rosy lips to mine ! 
What care we for world, or worldlings ? 

Mine thou art, and I am thine ! 



176 MARRIAGE-DAY. 

I will kiss thy lips, thy forehead, — 
Red as light, and white as snow ! 

Shadowing kisses shall protect thee, 
As the mists the moimtain brow. 

But I faint, dear maid ! support me 
In those circling arms of thine ; 

Has the kiss o'erwhelmed my reason, 
Like intoxicating wine ? 

"Pis a wine intoxicating, 

Like the nectar of the gods ; 

I have drunk it, love hath brought it 
Down from heaven to man's abodes. 

Yes ! my head with bliss is drunken ! 

Wondrous drunkenness is this, 
For from earth I am transported 

Into heaven's own paradise. 

O'er the clouds, amidst the planets ; 

Star to star, and as I sail 
Everywhere sweet voices hail me, 

Sweet as songs of nightingale. 



ERDOD. 17" 

But with a diviner singing ; 

Never such blest sounds I heard : 
Lightning circles, seas of glory, 

My celestial pathway gird. 

And my heart — how it flutters 

On that gently -heaving breast ; 
Let it not with joy be bursting 

In an extasy so blest ! 



EEDOD. 

Elpusztulo hert ott a var alatt. 

Under that city lies a garden waste, 

Over that garden mourns a widow' d city ; 

Both by the grey mists of the autumn braced, 

On both sad memory pours her plaints of pity. 

And both remind me what the fatherland 

Was in old time — the beautiful, the brave ; 

Yet still the garden cradles beauty's band, 

And still the city holds the heroes' grave. 

12 



178 UNDYING CERTAINTIES. 

In this old garden I have kissed my love, 

Locked her within my arms — memory sore ! 

Then the proud eagle held his throne above, 

Where now the bayonets flash, the cannons roar. 



Yet welcome garden ! tho' beneath thy trees 

No lovers smile, or sweep thy sacred sward ; 

Welcome old city walls, whose memories 

Now waken neither reverence nor regard ! 



UNDYING CERTAINTIES. 
Szep napkeletrek. 

In the oriental fields 

Spring's ajDproach my spirit gilds 

With the brightness of the day ; 
Gladness waking all around, 
My full heart a garden ground, 

Where midst flowers soft breezes play. 



UNDYING CERTAINTIES. 17D 

Yet I know that heart is panting 
For an unknown something wanting, 

Not to be by earth supplied : 
Something which must 'find its root 
In thy love, — and blossoming shoot 

From that love — mhie own dear bride ! 

Worldlings in their pride and folly 
Miss the blessing, miss it wholly — 

Vainly in its search they rove ; 
While from thee as naturally, 
As from lily of the valley, 

Breathes the fragrant breath of love. 

Fragrant breath of glowing light ! 
It can cheer the darkest night, 

Even of death, thro' whose dim portal 
It bursts forth, as if foretelling, 
From my future, final dwelling, 

A far brighter light immortal. 

Why should death an image bring 
Mouldering and perishing ? 

Death, which is the charioteer, 
Our freed spirits to convey 
Over an ascending way, 

To the heavens all bright and clear. 



180 A LONGING. 

When I look upon the sky, 
In its blue immensity, 

Fancy fashions out a road, 
Fading in the distance far, 
Where, from smiling star to star, 

We are welcomed up to God. 

Give thy hand ! On soaring wing, 
The sweet birds of midnight sing, 

" Higher ! higher ! " join their flight, 
Till we reach that ocean's brim, 
Where the swans of Eden swim 

In the Paradise of light. 





A LONGING. 

Meg mjihiak a volyyben a Tcerti virugok. 

The lindens are scattering their fragrance like clover, 
While the gay flowers bloom in the garden below ; 

A fawn-coloured mist spreads its canopy over 

The earth, and the mountains are covered with snow. 

On the bosom of youth summer's brightness is glowing, 
And the buds and the blossoms abundantly spread ; 

But the dews and the darkness my path are o'erflowing, 
And the dead leaves of autumn are dropt on my head. 



A LONGING. 181 

For so our lives fade, like the bud and the blossom ; 

But come to me sweet one ! in gentleness come ! 
And lay thy dear head on my welcoming bosom, 

That head which to-morrow may bend o'er my tomb. 

Dost answer ? " Not so ! be my fate to precede thee, 
Come thou to my cerements and bathe them with 
tears ; 

But let not some young laughing maiden mislead thee, 
And say that my love was less tender than hers." 

The veil of the widow — take it and bind it, 

A banner of victory, over the cross 
On my breast — I shall rise from the death-world and 

find it, 
A kerchief to dry up the tears which my loss 

Has drawn from my eyelids — but never ! never 
One thought of oblivion my spirit shall grieve ; 

My love will be with thee for ever and ever, 
And live while eternity's cycles shall live. 



182 



DOUBLE FEELINGS. 

Nem ert engem a ml ay. 

Little am I understood 

By the world and worldlings in it ; 
If, in ever-varying mood, 

I can vibrate in a minute 
From the dirge which moves the heart 

Into passion, pain, or pity — 
To the laughing songs which start 

Fancies strange, enigmas witty. 

What am I ? — a man midst men — 

All their faults and frailties sharing ; 
What am I ? — a citizen, 

All my country's sorrows bearing. 
For my love, joy -tears to shed 

When my visions glance upon her — 
Grief-tears, on my country's head, 

To pour out for her dishonour. 



DOUBLE FEELINGS. 183 

Love for me a garland bright, 

Of the sweetest flowers has braided ; 
Home, with thorns and aconite, 

Has my forehead sadly shaded ; 
When I touch my lyre I see 

Shadowy hands the gore- drops flinging 
On the strings, while from the tree 

Falling leaves disturb my singing. 

RHAPSODIES. 

I cannot chain my fancy, 

' Tis stronger than my will, 
' Twould wreath my brow with star-light, 

Struggling and soaring still. 
Could it but reach the limits 

Which bind this earthly sphere, 
' Twould launch a new creation 

Of suns and planets there. 



184 



THE MANIAC. 

Mit hdborgattoh f 

What wilt tliou now — why trouble me ? 

Away ! away ! away with thee ; 

I'm busy ! I'm busy ! so leave me alone — 

I'm twisting a whip — a fire -whip of my own — 

I'm twisting it out of the rays of the sun, 

And will scourge all the world when my labour is done ; 

It will howl — I shall laugh — ha ! ha ! hear ! — ha ! 

ha ! hear ! 
It laughed, when I howl'd : " The avenger is near ; " 
I know what it means — this world's screaming and 

scowling — 
' Tis howling and laughter — 'tis laughter and howling ; 
And then comes death's messenger, whispering " Be 

still ! " 
Did I not die ? Am I not dead ? 
Death — was it death — or death's phantom instead ? 
They drenched my wine with poison, then 
Forced me to drink that wine again ; 
Death's angels shrieking round with voices shrill. 



THE MANIAC. 185 

My murderers ! Tell me what they did to hide 

Their foul — foul crime ? 

They poured their death-shrieks out on every side, 

Looked pale and wept aloud — 

I could have started from my cerement shroud, 

Bitten the nose from each false face to show 

The fraudful mark — but no ! 

I bide my time. 

Let them preserve their noses and their smell, 

And in their nostrils stinking let me dwell 

Till I am buried — buried where ? Ha ! ha ! 

In Africa ! 

In Africa ! there would I rest, for there 

Shall a hyena shield me in his lair ; 

And be my benefactor — he will say — 

"I will devour thee." — "Well! you may — you may," 

I'll answer, and my heart I'll fling him ; he 

Shall spring upon it — 'twill so bitter be, 

That he shall, poisoned, die in agony. 

Look ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! — this is the fit reward, 

For those who serve mankind, serve men ; and what 



are men 



9 



A something rooted in the dusty sward, 

With branches towering upwards — No I no 1 no 

It is not so — 



I answer No ! again. 



186 THE MANIAC. 

' Tis true, man is a tree, whose deep, deep root 

Ascends from hell : 

I heard a learned sage his history tell, — 

He was a fool, and yet without dispute 

His tale was true, — the sage was naked, poor — 

Why did he not break thro' some rich man's door 

And steal — and steal ? — the fool ! and am not I 

As great a fool to be inquiring why ? 

No ! better far to weep — unsolaced — sad — 

The world it is so bad ; 

But heaven has wept enough from weeping clouds. 

That such a world God for its maker had, 

Who His regrets in dark repentance shrouds ; 

And what avail heaven's tears for grace or good ? 

They fall on earth, man tramples them to mud — 

To mud — ha ! ha ! — to mud. 

heaven ! heaven ! thy soldier, he has done 

His duty, for a victor- wreath the sun, 

For vestments the bright clouds were promised — he 

Hath won his victory. 

And now, and now, the exhausted soldier wears 

The brass cross which his ragged waistcoat bears ; 

And is this all ? Come hither, ye who draw 

Lessons of wisdom — ask the solemn daw 

What it all means — he answers, "Caw ! caw ! caw ! " 



THE MANIAC. 187 

Cry — measure woman ! fly her fatal ban, 
Woman that draws that master-subject — man, 
Like the lost river in the absorbing sea, 
Sucked in both spirit and shape — a mystery — 
Creation's greatest mystery is she ; 
A blooming garden, both in body and soul 
How lovely — but a lecherous, leprous whole ; 
In her fair hand she holds a golden cup — 
' Tis poison — drink it up ! 

love ! extasy of love ! I drank 
The poison, in delight, delirium sank ; 
One drop is sweeter, dearer, more divine 
Than deepest oceans filled with honied wine ; 
And yet one drop more fatal, poisonous, more 
Than seas impregnated with hellebore ; 

1 saw those seas the wild tornadoes move, 
Wrecked ships, drowned sailors' corpses, float above ; 
Death and destruction, — play-things, — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
The ripe fruit falls, and thou, thou perishing world 
Art ripe to rottenness, and shalt be hurled 

To ruin, with a dread anathema ! 
The curse is on thee — Perish ! shall I wait 
Until to-morrow wakes ; but if to-morrow 
Write not the last page of my shame and sorrow, 
I'll bury me within thine entrails straight ; 






188 ONE ONLY THOUGHT. 

And to thy fires bring pyramids of powder, 
And there explode in thunderbolts, but louder ; 
Flung up to heaven midst planet, star, and sun — 
You hear me — ha ! ha ! ha! — the work is done. 



ONE ONLY THOUGHT. 

Egy gondolat bant engemet. 

One thought torments me sorely — 'tis that I r 

Pillowed on a soft bed of down, may die — 

Fade slowly, like a flower, and pass away 

Under the gentle pressure of decay. 

Paling as pales a fading, flickering light 

In the dark, lonesome solitude of night. 

God ! let not my Magyar name 

Be linked with such a death of shame ; 

No ! rather let it be 

A lightning- struck, uprooted tree — ■ 

A rock, which torn from mountain-brow, 

Comes rattling, thundering down below. 

Where every fettered race tired with their chains, 

Muster their ranks and seek the battle plains ; 



ONE ONLY THOUGHT. 189 

And with, red flushes the red flag unfold, 

The sacred signal there inscribed in gold — 

" For the world's liberty ! " 

And, far and wide, the summons to be free 

Fills east and west, — and to the glorious fight 

Heroes press forward, battling for the right : 

There will I die ! 

There, drowned in mine own heart' s-blood, lie, — 

Poured out so willingly ; th' expiring voice, 

Even in its own extinction shall rejoice. 

"While the sword's clashing, and the trumpet's sound, 

And rifles and artillery thunder round ; 

Then may the trampling horse 

Gallop upon my corse, 

When o'er the battle-field the warriors fly. 

There let me rest till glorious victory 

Shall crown the right — my bones upgathered be 

At the sublime interment of the free ! 

When million voices shout their elegy 

Under the unfurled banners waving high ; 

On the gigantic grave which covers all 

The heroes, who for freedom fall, 

And welcome death because they die for thee — 

All holy ! world-delivering liberty ! 



190 



HOMER AXD OSSIAX. 
Hoi vannalc a liellenek, es liol a czeltdk? 

Where are the Greeks ? and where the Celtic race 

Gone ! They have left no trace : 

Where are the ancient cities which the floods 

Have turned to solitudes ? 

Two pillars tower aloft — but to declare 

What glorious things there were ! 

Two grand memorials of the antique man — 

Homer and Ossian ! 

One was a beggar, one of royal blood — 

In contrast strange they stood ; 

Yet common links their varied histories bind, 

For both were blind ! 

And did their fiery spirits steal their sight 

To fill their brains with light ; 

Or was that light absorbed in the bright flame 

Of their eternal fame ? 

They were grand soids, with magic hand 

They smote the lute, and filled the listening land 

As with new messages from God ; their arm 

Of power was a resistless witchery's charm ; 



HOMER AND OSSllN. 191 

Their wonder- waking influences raised up trains 

Of wonderers waking at th' impassioned strains — 

Hear Homer ! hear ! 

His music agitates the heavenly sphere ; 

His brightness from the east is bursting, brought 

Westward in currents of harmonious thought, 

As the day's dawning and the sunbeam's light, 

Like molten steel in streams and cataracts bright 

They move the iEgean ocean in their flow — 

With greenness gild the Archipelago ; 

Bring men and gods together, and above, 

Both gods and men spread canopies of love. 

And there is Ossian ! 

He sits among the mists — the shadowy man ! 

O'er the north-ocean — and his harmonies 

Blend with the wild winds and the raging seas 

Under the clouded, the mysterious moon, 

Which rises, and usurps the sun's abandoned throne ; 

A visible darkness o'er the wide, wide waste 

Stretches its covering — and the night birds, chased 

By the fierce tempest, fly — while hero-ghosts 

Stalk o'er the field where erst the battle hosts 

Clashed and were scattered — all that's grand and 

glowing, 
All that is bright, and beautiful, and flowing, 



192 SERENE HAPPINESS. 

White-headed beggar, Homer ! all is thine ! 

The grey, the dark, the strange, the misty throng 

Of shadows, are the enchantments of thy song, 

Ossian ! of kingly line ! 

Then sing, still sing — mount higher, upwards, higher, 

Smite the lute loudly — smite the golden lyre ; 

Homer and Ossian ! 

Listening to you centuries on centuries ran, 

And centuries still shall run, 

Long as the morning's waking sees the sun, 

Long as the earth shall hail its waking ; time 

Has stamped its sanction, sacred and sublime, 

Upon your sovereignty, — 

High above death — above mortality 

Ye raise your noble foreheads glory-crowned, 

And countless ages worship all around. 



SEKENE HAPPINESS 

Csendes tenger ronasdgdn. 

On the tranquil breast of ocean, 
Cradled is my bark, — as spring, 
Cradles with a gentle motion, 
The young rosebud blossoming. 



SERENE HAPPINESS. 193 

When the experienced thoughtful word 

Utterance finds, it should be heard ; 

I was launched upon a sea, 

On whose shores was destiny ; 

Dangers and delays before me, 

Lightnings bursting round me, o'er me ; 

Reefs and rocks which wild waves cover, 

Eddy- whirlpools rushing over ; 

When the fierce whirl rules the rudder, 

Well my trembling heart may shudder. 

What can save my bark from wreck ? 

Is there in the heavens a speck, 

Whence a single ray of light 

Dawns upon my darkening sight ? 

Have I not in prayerful pride 

Courage sought on every side ? 

And my recompense is this, 

That upon the ocean's breast 

I have found a place of rest, 

And a paradise of bliss. 

I have laid my rudder down, 

And my bark can speed alone, 

For the winds that fill my sails 

Are the Zephyr's vernal gales ; 

Heaven's own azure flowers are bound 

13 



194 SERENE HAPPINESS. 

Garlanding my forehead round : 
Flowers so beautiful, so blue, 
Mirroring back heaven's brightest hue. 
On the cradling waves I lie, 
Lulled by their sweet lullaby, 
Free from care, from sorrow free, 
On that gently rocking sea, 
In my maiden's dear embrace — 
O what smiles illume her face ! 
O what beams of living light 
Shine from eyes as black as night — 
Light, whose dazzling flash will dim 
Flames from eyes of seraphini. 
Then I seize my lyre — in play 
Midst the strings my fingers stray ; 
And the strains of music flow — 
How, or why, I scarcely know ; 
For those fingers often will 
Stray among her moving tresses, 
As they vibrate to the breezes, 
And with bliss my pulse is still ; 
Then such power of song is given 
To my lyre — such strains divine 
That the stars descend from heaven, 
Listening to those strains of mine : 




SERENE HAPPINESS. 195 

Circling round my head they dance, 

And as waking from a trance, 

From the sea the enchanted moon 

Rises and resounds the tune. 

Still I sing and still I float 

O'er the waters in my boat, 

Like a Dolphin on his throne, 

Like another Arion. 

Then I hear a demon calling, 

With a thunder-voice appalling — 

' Storms and dangers are at hand 

Menacing the fatherland ! " 

And I fain would shelter me 

In the sea's immensity ; 

Hide me where the wind and wave 

In discordant conflict rave. 

Yes I the petrel's screams foretell 

Wrecks and tempests terrible, 

When heaven's concave thro' and thro', 

Wears the o'er-mantling robe of blue. 



196 



WIFE AND SWOKD. 

Galamb van a hdzon. 

A dove upon the house-roof, 
Above in heaven a star ; 

Thou, on my bosom sleeping — 

How sweet thy breathings are ! 

Soft as the morning dew-drops 
Upon the rose-leaves fall, 

Thou in my arras reposest, 

My love, my wife, my all ! 

"Why should I not embrace thee, 
With kisses manifold ? 

My lips are rich with kisses — 
So gushing — so untold. 

We talk, we toy, we trifle, 
We revel in love's bliss, 

And snatch at every breathing — 
A kiss — another kiss. 



WIFE AND SWOED. 197 

But who that bliss can measure, 

Sparkling in every glance ? 
It crests thy lips with beauty, 

It lights thy countenance. 

I look upon my sabre, 

' Tis idly hung above ; 
And does it not reproach me ? — 

" Why so absorbed in love ? " 

Thou old — thou young companion ! 

So wildly looking down ; 
I hear thy voice of anger, 

I see thy threatening frown. 

: Shame — shame on thee, deserter ! 

Thus trifling with a wife ; 
Awake I thy country calls thee 

For liberty, for life." 

And I — " She is so lovely, 

So witching, so divine — 
The gift of heavenly beauty, 

This angel-love of mine ! 



198 NIGHTINGALES AND LARKS. 

" recognize the mission, 

Entrusted from the sky, 
To this celestial envoy, 

And hail her embassy." 

She heard the word ; she echoed 

That word—" < The Fatherland I 

I buckle on the sabre, 

With mine own plighted hand. 

" I charge thee — save thy country, 

' Tis mine, 'tis thine — for both. 
Off to the field of victory, 

And there redeem thy troth." 






NIGHTINGALES AND LARKS. 

TJgyan meg meddig zengitelc. 

How long hast thou poured out thy nightly tune, 
Worshipper of the moon ! 

From the old time, whose clouds have borne away 
The memories of thy lay ? 



NIGHTINGALES AND LARKS. 199 

Well hast thou left thy nest, 

Built midst the trees which crest 

Our ancient cities' ruins— hurrying far 

From the dark haunts, where owls and ravens are ; 

Thy soul is by sweet witchery inspired — 

Thrilling, but never tired ; 

It flashes in the eye, it wakes the lyre 

With transports' fever' d fire ; 

With tears hot-burning, the sad heart it sears — 

False are the transports, cowardly the tears ; 

Transports and tears in days like these — 

That only tell of our degeneracies ! 

Nay ! we will have no song, no chant, no chime, 

But those which echo the departed time : 

And what are ye but plunderers of the dead, 

Stealers of corpses from their slumbering bed ? 

Thou bring' st them from the lonely night 

Into the morning light, 

The long departed centuries ; 

And thou wouldst garland these 

With laurels, — I will take no share 

In such a ministration, — 'tis a curse — 

A profanation — murder- stained, and worse ; 

Here mortals pine in gloom and grief and gall, 

The world is but a general hospital ; 



200 NIGHTINGALES AND LARKS. 

Contagion spreading here and there, 

Through the doomed kingdom, festering everywhere ! 

Our country on the altar's footstep lies, 

A worthless sacrifice. 

For who that history's dreary page has read, 

Saw e'er a nation wakened from the dead — 

Here or elsewhere — ask — and be answered never — 

If nations, doomed to sleep, must sleep for ever ? 

Ask, in thy misery, restless, anxious, fretful, 

Will heaven of its own children be forgetful ? 

Ask if there be a sickness, whose condition 

Is far beyond the reach of the physician ? 

Ask if there be a curse, whose cure demands 

The heaven's damnation, or earth's hangman's hands : 

Are these thy songs — are these thy melodies — 

The music of thy lute strings — these ? 

I ask — and in my misery, floods of tears 

Burst from my eyes, and thro' these showers appears 

A dream — a shadowy dream — of future years. 

And thou, sweet tarrying singer of the night, 

Be silent quite ! 

Thou hast no song of gaiety or gladness, 

Cease thou thy notes of sadness ; 

They bring no healing to the suffering soul, 

They will not make the heart that's broken whole. 



ANTICIPATION. 201 

The nightingale belongs to night. But lo ! 
Midnight is passing, and its curtains dark 
Day draws aside, and now the morning glow 
Brightens the fields — fly nightingale — and hark I 
I hear the singing of the morning lark. 



ANTICIPATION. 
Egesz uton Jiaza fele. 

"What wildering thoughts my mind engage, 
When wending on my homeward way ! 

(I had not seen her for an age) 

"What shall I to my mother say ? 

What honied words of love and joy, 

When I shall clasp her to my breast, 

And the same arms that hugged the boy 
Around the rugged man be prest ? 

A thousand, thousand thoughts oppress, 
Of what is — will be — and hath been ; 

All mingling in a happiness, 
That is as sacred as serene. 



202 



EVENING AT HOME. 



To the old cottage door I come, 

My mother springs to welcome me ! 

I hang upon her lips — but dumb 
As is the fruit upon the tree. 




EVENING AT HOME. 

Borozgatdnk apdmmal. 

Bed wine drank I with my father. 

Which the old man poured like rain 

Full of kindness, full of loving, 

Once I blessed him — and again. 

Long, too long had I been absent, 
Years since I my sire had seen ; 

Age the old man's brow had furrowed, 
And we talked of what had been. 

Talked of all my strange adventures — 
Weather-beatings, wanderings — 

Theatres and men and music, 

And a thousand different things. 



EVENING AT HOME. 



203 



Then he sets my " work " before me, 

" Chop the logs ! " good man ! the past 

Was so blended with the present — 
Earliest habits linger last. 

" Well ! it was a vile existence, 

You were shamefully misused " — 
So I sit and hear in silence 
My poor theatre abused. 

" You were ragged — you were hungry — 
Ah ! I see it on your brow ; 
Tell me — tell me how you bore it, 

So much suffering — tell me how." 

Then I laughed and joked — my language 
Hiding half my thoughts the while, 

Smiled upon his inexperience — 
He did not return the smile. 

Then I sang a jolly ditty, 

Sang a ditty of mine own, 
And he set my heart a- dancing 

When he cried, "Well done! well done!" 



204 EVENING AT HOME. 

Then I said, "And will you listen, 

Verse of mine while I rehearse ! " 
But the old man shrugged his shoulders- 
" I don't know the use of verse." 

Should I wonder ? his the training 
To toil on from day to day ; 

' Twas not learning, but hard labour 
That had made his tresses grey. 

When the flask of wine was emptied, 
I snatched up a pen to keep 

Record of a passing fancy, 

And the old man — fell asleep. 

Then my mother entered, asking 

Hundred, thousand questions then ; 

" This and that and t'other tell me — 
Fling away that dirty pen." 

And I listened to my mother's 

Hundred, thousand questionings, 

Asking, answering one another's 

Talk of women, men, and things. 




SOLITUDE. 205 

And I thought — the thought was dearer 
Than the loudest sounds of mirth ; 

Oh ! I have the dearest mother — 
Dearest mother on the earth I 



SOLITUDE. 

Messze, messze a vildg zajdtul — 

From the world, and all the world's bewilderings, 

Solitude I sought ; 
There to live in happiness and silence, 

And be — nought. 

Happiness ! I never knew its presence, 

Wildly, blindly driven 
Thro' the noisy street, the crowded chamber — 

Earth or heaven ! 

Ever haunted by some lynx-eyed monster 

Thro' the night and day, 
To molest me, haunt me, circumvent me, 

As his prey. 



206 



TO A FRIEND. 



So I seized my staff and bound my girdle, 

And I took my flight, 
Hither, where the golden sunbeams met me, 

Smiling bright. 

Holy solitude ! now look upon me, 
Freed from every fetter ; 

Let me never hear the voices calling, 
" You're my debtor ! " 



TO A FEIEND. 

Kalmdridohet eluiik mostandban. 

We live in vile and venal days, and know it ; 

The world is but a coin of golden dust, 
And on it the impression of the poet 

Is but a transitory bit of rust. 
no ! he is the image of the king, 

On the world's currency — he, the truest test 
Of the pure ore that makes the metal ring, 

Of all the minting he the worthiest. 
Art thou a poet ? ring the music loud — 
And of thy great inheritance be proud. 



207 



TO BE, OE NOT TO BE. 

Legy dikozott, te dtkos pillanal. 

Accursed was the hour — brim-full of curses, 

Which summoned me " to be " — 
And told my mother in her hour of anguish, 

"A son is born to thee." 

poetry ! thou spider ! 

That, in thy treacherous web, entanglest men, 

And stabbing their hearts' centre, 
Look'st pitiless upon their writhing pain. 

Yes ! thou hast drunk insatiate of my blood, 

Thou poison-spitting spider ! 
Is thy web tearable ? — then I will tear it : 

Why — why should I abide here ? 

Strongly tho' T am held, 
And thou with fetters all my limbs art clasping, 

1 feel my growing strength, 

And it shall free my chained heart from thy grasping. 



208 TO BE, OK NOT TO BE. 






I will not feed the spider with my blood, 

As I have done till now, 
While tears of shame were running down my cheeks, 

And sorrow stamped my brow. 

What shall I seek — fame ? Nay ! 
Fame is a nothingness — an idle name ; 

I will not waste my powers 
To find — what found were less than nothing — fame ! 

I with the vulgar herd down life's dull river 

Will unconcernedly swim ; 
The fates that keep the fool from rocks and dangers 

May care for me as him. 

I said — for fame be careless — 
Seek in tranquillity's repose thy bliss, 

And if thou chance to find it, 
' Tis the best blessing of a world like this. . 

Shall I be silent ever, — my existence 

A voiceless instrument, to hang 
Upon the wall where never more shall vibrate 

Its melancholy clang ? 

Silent in weal or woe, 
Smitten with helplessness ! no ! the wave, 

When by the whirlwind shaken, 
Cannot be still and voiceless as the grave. 



WINTER-NIGHT. 209 

Spirit of poetry ! I cannot smite thee, 

I cannot smite thee dumb ; 
Spite of myself my inner heart is speaking, 

Its passionate bursts will come ; 

They will come thundering, whether 
Heard or not heard, in accents loud and rude, 

For I must speak, must sing, 
While breath inspires my life, or passion warms my 
blood. 



WINTEK-NIGHT. 

Vad teli ej. Siiru Jiopelyheh esnek. 

Wild winter night ! the falling flakes of snow 
Are by the storm-wind driven. Snow flakes — no ! 
These are the fancies of bewildered thought, 
The scattered fragments my soul's dreams have 
wrought. 

The midnight comes in robes of darkness clouded. 
I see three spirits in its mantling shrouded ; 
Lost here below, they winged their flight above, 
I see their unveiled features — Faith ! Hope ! Love ! 

14 



210 WINTER-NIGHT. 

They live not upon earth, they murdered me ; 
And now they quit their grave of mystery 
At midnight, and with melancholy sigh, 
Eemind me of the happier days gone by. 

The storms break through the clouds ; on the pale rays, 
Which march with heaven's bright armaments, I gaze ; 
But in the distance, thro' the misty flood, 
The scattered stars appear like drops of blood. 

And who shall say they are not blood records 

Of murderous man's ferocious deeds and words ? 

Upon the field still Abel's blood remains, 

And men in sportive mood have called them Cains ! J 

Burst, tempests ! in your wrath — your curses bring — 
Shatter the clouds — upon my forehead fling 
Your bolts —uprooting my dishevelled hair, 
And crush my heart that's wiithing in desj)air. 

How that heart beats — a heavy fragment rolled 
Down a steep mountain, from some ruin old ; 
An icicle that drops upon a pall, 
And makes the mourner shudder at its fall. 
1 The Dog-star. 



MY PRAYER. 211 

Thou art the pall, my bosom ! and there dwells 

In thee a heart, as cold as icicles ; 

Thou art a living grave, upon whose bed 

Lie wrecked and ruined hopes, and memories dead. 

The storm is passed, the tranquil moonbeams gild. 
With glittering smiles, the forest and the field ; 
I wend my homeward way — alas ! to me 
The moonbeams tell of nought but misery. 



MY PKAYEK. 
ElkdrJiozdstol felt szegeny any dm. 

My poor old mother talks of my perdition, 

And has she not some reason for her care ? 

I know her meaning, and my conscience tells me 

' Tis long since I have poured to heaven a prayer. 

But I will pray — pray with my hands enfolded — 
Pray with the passion of a soul sincere : 

" father hear me — pitying father ! hear me ! 
Father in heaven ! benignant father, hear ! 



212 MY PRAYER. 

Grant — grant, Almighty Euler of the nations — 

Grant to my country, — but my country's throes 

Thrill thro' me, for which woe shall I implore thy 
Mercy, in such a wilderness of woes ! 

One only prayer ! Look down ! behold Hungaria ! 

Is it not piteous ? Any change were dear ; 
Save her from perishing — awake — renew her ; 

Father in heaven ! benignant father, hear ! 

For me ? — the sweet smiles of a loving maiden. 
And a swift-footed, well-appointed steed, 

On which, conveying coronals of laurels, 

To the sweet smiling maiden I might speed. 

I want them, not for garlanding my forehead, 
Whatever fail, the laurels shall be there ; 

Father in heaven I I thank thee thou hast heard me — 
Benignant Father ! thou hast heard my prayer ! " 



213 



TO MY FATHEB. 

Itt, a honnan messze Icell utazni mig az. 

Here where you must travel far, before the mountains 

Eise above the boundaries of the Netherland, 
Here I love to look on Nature's quiet beauty, 

Freedom and repose surround me where I stand : 
Near the little hut in which I find my dwelling, 

When the songs of mirth their joyous echoes 
spread, 
Here an ancient man is master of the household — 

Blessings, blessings fall upon his hoary head ! 

Where my dwelling is, my meat and drink provided, 

To complain of either were a shame, a crime ; 
While I wait on none, on me they all are waiting ; 

No complaint, even when I enter after time. 
But one thing annoys me — when a word reproachful 

To the good old hostess by the host is said ; 
Yet 'tis scarcely uttered ere he asks forgiveness — 

Blessings, blessings fall upon his hoary head ! 



214 TO MY FATHER. 

Often do we talk of days and years departed, 

Why should happy years so hurriedly depart ? 
Then he had a house, a garden, field and cellar, 

Many an ox and horse, and harvest-bearing cart. 
Thieves despoiled his household, and the o'er-flowing 
Danube 

Swept his house away — and there, impoverished, 
Stood the ancient man amidst the desolation — 

Blessings, blessings fall upon his hoary head ! 

Now Ins sun of life in darkness has descended, 

And the old man asks for silence and repose ; 
Who can tell the weight of sorrow on his shoulders ? 

Who can tell the number of his wants and woes? 
He no day of rest — no sabbath-day can welcome, 

Early, late, he labours, for his daily bread ; 
Oh 1 I mourn the lot of that old man — so weary — 

Blessings, blessings fall upon his hoary head ! 

Wlien I smiling say — " a better fate awaits thee ; " 
He just shakes his head — the comfort comes too 
late : 
" Let me journey on, my pilgrimage is ending, 

Peace will welcome me within the churchyard 
gate." 



I AND THE SUN. 215 

Then I press him tight against my panting bosom — 
what pangs are felt, what burning tears are 
shed ! 

Is "not that old man mine own beloved father ? 
Blessings, blessings fall upon his hoary head ! 



I AND THE SUN. 
Bdmulja sok oily epedoleg a Jioldat. 

Some have imagined that human regrets 

Mount to the moon and are petrified there ; 

Some that the dew-drop, the flower-bud that wets, 
Is the rendering to earth of a heaven-dropping tear. 

But my heart-soarings are not to the moon, 
They to the sun in its glory aspire ; 

Thence are the songs which their music attune, 

Thence come love's gushes, thence extasy's fire. 

I and the sun are betrothed, — his bright beam 
Kindles a beam in my spirit as bright ; 

All my heart's joys I contemplate in him, 

While my heart's mirror reflects back his light. 



216 EVERY FLOWER. 

Yet one sad thought for the future I have, 

When I repose where my fathers reposed -; 

Tho' he may rise and may sit on my grave, 
Rising or sitting my eyes will be closed. 



Yet men have said that the ghosts have a right, 

For a fugitive hour from their prisons to stray : 

let my prison be closed thro' the night, 

And let me come forth in the brightness of day ! 



EYEEY FLOWEE. 
Minden virctgndk, minden his fuszdlnak. 

Every flower and grass-blade, every one 
Claims, at least, one bright smile from the sun ! 
Love ! — the sunshine of the soul — that art, 
Hast thou not one sunbeam for my heart ? 
Hast thou not one maid to love me well ? 
Hast thou not one maid to hear me tell 
Of the coldness of the world, and bring 
Light and heat in her sweet ministering ? 






CHRISTMAS. 217 

Is there not a maid to say " Come near ! 
Thou art weary — lay thy tired head here ! " 
Is there not a maid to kiss away 
Blood-drops from my brow, that many a day 
Cruel men have stoned ? Alone I stand 
Like a withered vine upon the land ; 
On its branches not a bird to enchant me, 
Save the ravens black that ever, ever haunt me. 



CHKISTMAS. 

'En liozzam is benezett a kardcson. 

Old Christmas turned towards me — was it only 
To see a visage blank and pale and lonely, 

And the sad tears that trembled in my eye ? 

Go farther, Christmas ! — all thy bounties bringing 
To some bright circle, where sweet voices ringing 
Shall welcome thee — go ! pass the anchorite by ! 

Some chilling thoughts my wakening heart appal, 
And, like the icicles upon the wall, 

Hang stiffly on that heart — it was not so, 



218 CHRISTMAS. 

In older, happier days, when Christmas came. 
And every eye shone brighter at the name — 
Parents and brothers all — a joyous row. 

many saw us then — all, all delighted ; 
All, all in daily blessedness united — 

All, all so happy — all so kind, so good ! 

We loved our brethren all — God honoured, all, 
And when the beggar called, we hailed his call, 
We gave him comfort and we gave him food. 

And our reward ? Short were our days of bliss- 
Launched on a wide, wide sea of miseries, 

Our destined harbour was despair and death. 

And yet I dreamed that the old family tree 
Might stand unshattered midst the misery — 
Sunshine above it, sheltering beneath. 

It was not so — there came a whirlwind forth, 
And flung its branches to the south and north — 
One of its roots, my mother — left alone. 



THE IMPATIENT MOON. 219 

my soul's ancestry — brothers dear I 
loved companions, scattered here and there, 
Shall we not meet again, again be one ? 

Hope ! thou has often kissed me, tho' thy kiss 
Was treacherous — yet is thine a tempting bliss ; 
In trusting thee once more — betray not, then, 

Thy suppliant — let me dream of happy things — 
Of family meetings, family ministerings — 
Past days of blessedness to dawn again. 

I am no sun, which earth and moon roll round, 
I am a comet lost in heaven's vast bound, 

And thro' the storm winds bear my melancholy 
train. 



THE IMPATIENT MOON. 

Mert vagyoh en a hold f isten, mil vetettem. 

And what am I, the moon ? Tell me thou great all- 
seeing ! 
Why was I born to be a miserable being ? 
I'd rather be a slave, by earthly tyrants driven, 
Than be a midnight king, and sit enthroned in heaven. 



220 



THE IMPATIENT MOON. 



A beggar ratlier be, in rags and tatters roving, 

Than thro' these fields of blue, in silver vestments 
moving. 

I'd rather eat the bread of poverty, tho' bitter, 

Than drink the fragrant dews of all the stars that 
glitter. 

Wilt thou not hear my prayer ? thou that hear'st 
the growling 

Of many an angry bard — of many a dog that's howl- 
ing ; 

Bards ! bards ! What bards ? They pour their cata- 
racts of verses 

Heartless — they have no heart — I hear, with silent 
curses ; 

They speak, they spout to me, in folly's inebriety, 

As if I were not tired — how tired, of such society ! 

True I am pale and wan, I sicken in the sadness, 

Of all these maddened sounds, would it were mute 
madness ! 

I'd rather hear the screams of discord's many daugh- 
ters, 

Or cries of slaughtered swine rebelling 'gainst their 
slaughters. 

But now and then amidst these horrors dark and horrid, 

I see a spark of light burst from a minstrel's fore- 
head ; 



THE IMPATIENT MOON. 221 

A poet true who comes, his genial music proffering, 
And then my face shines bright and brighter at the 

offering ; 
I listen to the strains complacent and enjoying, 
Which make the dissonance but tenfold more annoy- 
ing; 
O those vile sounds — they spread — they propagate 

like rabbits, 
Are there no laws to check their procreative habits ? 
Fm left no night in peace, I hear the eternal tune, ! 
And these impostors cry, " We're singing to the moon, 

0!" 
But see, another comes, the monster dares to face me, 
Stretches his apish arms, and says he would embrace 

me : 
The zany looks to heaven, and fancies I will hear him, 
When not a fool on earth is fool enough to bear him ; 
And then he sighs and sighs, half terrified, half tipsy, 
And in my presence stands, like a convicted gipsy ; 
Asks me — asks me, the moon ! — to help him to discover 
What is the reason he is a rejected lover ? 
I'll tell him once for all — he shall not be mistaken, 
" You had the grill in charge, you know, and spoilt 

the bacon ! 
Did you not give a hot potato to the woman, 



222 ANOTHER YEAR. 



With which she burnt her mouth — and was it not 

inhuman ? 
Now go, and wail and weep, in moody melancholy — 
Sit in the stocks of shame, repenting of your folly ; 
List to the oracle, thou dunce ! if I can make thee 
Hear my last word — 'tis this, 'tis this — The devil take 

thee ! " 



MOTTO. 

All other things above 
Are liberty and love ; 
Life would I gladly tender 
For love : yet joyfully 
Would love itself surrender 
For liberty. 



ANOTHER YEAR. 

Egij esztend'6 a mdsik sirjdt dssa. 

One year entombs another year, as men 

Deliver fellow-men to death's dominion ; 

And now a year is sepulchred again, 

Smitten by hurrying time's destructive pinion. 



i 



ANOTHER YEAR. 223 

be extinguished, dying year ! Efface 

All footprints of thy presence, buried year ! 
Amidst the records to rny memory dear, 

Of thy past history I would find no trace. 

Thou busyedst me with many smiling schemes, 

Thou scatteredst broadcast many hopeful seeds, 
Filledst my soul with flattering, flowery dreams, 

With words of promise, plans of prosperous deeds ; 
Thy gleams of sunshine brightened on my face, 

Thy fame-proclaiming voices filled mine ear ; 

Yet midst the records to my memory dear, 
Of thy past history I would find no trace. 

My heart was but the football of hard fate, 

And bore the brand of suffering; at thy smile, 

That heart, relieved, felt less disconsolate, 

And its fierce burnings were extinguished, while 

The crater of its fires had yet a place 

Within me — still tormenting, troubling there, 
And midst my memory's records, parting year ! 

Of thy past history I would find no trace. 

dying year ! upon thy grave is rocked 
My fragile cradle, by a gentle hand, 

And by hope's sweet embraces kindly locked 
In visions, I on Eden's borders stand. 



224 



THE NOBLEMAN. 



Should they deceive me, should the future chase 
Such dreamings — I will drop no bitter tear ; 
But midst my memory's records, dying year ! 

Of thy past history thou shalt leave no trace. 

But then, but then, Hungaria's curse shall fall 
Upon them, bringing hate and wail and woe, 

If to her liberty-arousing call — 

If thou shouldst answer with a thund'ring — No ! 

Tear up her garlands, let her hide her face 
In shame and sorrow, let her disappear 
In darkness — dying, but deceitful year ! 

Of thy past histoiy I will find no trace. 



THE NOBLEMAN. 

Berezsre liuzzak a gazemhert. 

Tde Halunk is brought to the Derezs's side, 
And is paid for his songs by your blows ; 

He cheated, he pilfered, he plundered, he lied- 
What more ? Only Beelzebub knows. 



TO MANY HUNGARIAN ABSENTEES. 225 

He cries while you smite him, " Beware what you 

do! 
When the rights of a noble you scorn, 
You despise all the laws of Hungaria, when you 

Lay stripes on a nobleman born." 

A nobleman — true ! I have made a mistake 
In my manner of dealing with thee, 

I well might have spared thee the stick or the stake, 
For the richly deserved gallows tree. 



TO MANY HUNGAKIAN ABSENTEES. 
Ti fehelyeh a hazdnah testen. 

Ye ulcers on the body of the state ! 

Deserting brotherhood ; 
Would I were fiery caustic to abate 

Such evil blood ! 

I am not fiery caustic — cannot ban 

The traitor — but can pour, 
The haughty forehead of the miching man, 

My curses o'er. 

15 



226 TO MANY HUNGARIAN ABSENTEES. 

Is our poor fatherland so rich in store 

That it needs not your purse ? 
Is our poor fatherland so very poor — 

Could not be worse ? 

Eobbers ! who what your country's weal demands, 

Dug from her own rich mines, 
Waste on the idol-gods of other lands, 

And foreign shrines. 

Ye saw your country struggling in the dust, 

Did it not move you then ? 
Did not your eyes weep blood-tears — as they must — 

If ye were men ? 

Come back ! Come back ! when struck with poverty, 

The pilgrim staff in hand ; 
Come back ! and supplicating beggars be 

For fatherland ! 

Self-exiled ! By the lash of infamy, 

Be homeward, homeward driven ! 

Bend on your country's grave the suppliant knee, 
To be forgiven. 



227 



OUE COUNTEY. 

Lement a nap. JDe csillagoh — 

The sun went down, but not a starlet 

Appeared in heaven — all dark above — 

No light around, except the taper 

Dim glimmering, and my homely love. 

That homely love's a star in heaven 

That shines around both near and far, 

A home of sadness — sad Hungaria ! 

Where wilt thou find that lovely star ? 

And now my taper flickers faintly, 

And midnight comes, but in the gleam, 

Faint as it is, I see a shadow 

Which half reveals a future dream. 

It brightens as the day-break brightens, 

Each flame brings forth a mightier flame 

There stand two figures in the nimbus — 
Old Magyar honour — Magyar fame. 



228 OUR COUNTRY. 

Magyars ! look not on your fathers, 

But bid them hide their brows in night ; 

Your eyes are weak, those suns are dazzling, 
Ye cannot bear that blasting light. 

Time was those ancient, honoured fathers, 

Could speak the threatening, thundering word ' 

'Twas like the bursting of the storm-wind, 
And Europe, all responsive, heard I 

Great was the Magyar then — his country 

Honoured — his name a history 
Of glory — now a star extinguished — 

A fallen star in Magyar sea. 

'Twas long ago — the laurel garland 

Was round the Magyar forehead bound ; 

Shall fancy — eagle -pinioned — ever 

See Magyar hero-brow recrowned ? 

That laurel crown so long has faded — 

So long thy light has ceased to gleam ; 

Thy greatness seems a myth, thy storj^ 
A fable of the past — a dream ! 



HISTORY OP THREE HEARTS. 229 

Long have mine eyes been dry and tearless, 

But now I weep, and can it be 
That these are dews of spring — the dawning 

Of brighter days for Hungary ? 

And can it — can it be — a meteor, 

That for a moment burst and blazed — 

Lighted with brightness all the heavens, 
And sunk in darkness while we gazed. 

No ! 'tis a comet, whose returning 

Is sure as is the march of doom ; 
Hungary shall hail it, blazing, burning, 

It cannot, will not fail to come. 



HISTOEY OF THREE HEARTS. 

Volt egy lovag, Mnek nem volt hazdja. 
i. 
There was a knight, of fatherland bereft, . 
That land wrecked, ruined — not a vestige left, ■ 
Which waste and war, and desolation's flame 
Had spared — it stood, the shadow of a name ; 



230 HISTORY OF THKEE HEARTS. 



The knight looked on the frightful devastation, 

His blood was boiling, and his reddened brow 

Bespoke a fierce, but silent indignation, 

As if the blood-fount were exhausted now ; 

And every drop outpoured so willingly, 

Poured out in vain — the Fatherland is dead, — 

Dishonoured — doomed. The branch is from the tree 

Wrenched rudely by the storm-wind — scattered 

The leaves through the wide world, — he saw the cloud 

That darkened all the heaven — and on the spot, 

Which was his home, in agony he bowed, 

But even one word of anguish uttered not ; 

The tears dropped thickly on the absorbing grass — 

The grass upon his country's grave that grew ; 

His tears were all he had to give — alas ! 

And he would fain be melted with the dew 

That lay there — then he rose — and looked around — 

Stalked like a ghostly shadow o'er the ground, 

And flung a curse upon the solitude ; 

Then came a thought to that bewildered mood — 

Might not a wandering, weary spirit roam 

In search of home, to find at last a home ? 

But better than a foreign home it were 

To sink into enduring death, sleep there 

Where snowy flowers might lie upon the grave — 






HISTORY OF THREE HEARTS. 231 

What more than rest would the tired pilgrim have ? 

So in the silent woods he lingered, asking 

A pillow for his weariness. The spot , 

Was brightened by a lovely maiden, basking 

In sunshine, — in his gloom he saw her not — 

Saw nothing — but the wrecked and ruined cot — 

Knew not how often, through the forest shade, 

The starry lamps were looked on by the maid ; 

How oft her eyes caught radiance from their glance ; 

He knew not that love's terrors often paled 

Like snowy lilies that sad countenance, 

That what she felt she uttered not, but quailed, 

Under a silence-forcing influence. 

O how could she, mistress of house and land, 

And name and fortune — dream of one who stood 

A poor knight by the world's opinion banned, 

And tainted with the stains of common blood ? 

For in that spot the youth had dwelt of old — 

A peasant — a field labourer — of the poor 

The poorest — struggling both with want and cold, 

He then had seen the maiden, but no more 

Dared look upon her face, than look upon 

The blasting lightning or the mid- day sun ; 

Yet wheresoe'er he went, a ray that came 

From that bright vision, filled his soul with flame — 



L6L HISTORY OF THREE HEARTS. 

The flame of love, whose ever fostered fire 
Blazed brighter in the darkness of desire 
And dread, lest she, the lofty, might discover 
The hidden passion of the lowly lover : 
So daringly presumptuous — yet perhaps 
Heroic deeds and laurel wreaths might bring, 
When many a weary, weary year should lapse, 
For love's high altar a fit offering ; 
Meanwhile might he not hope to catch — from far 
A glance — a glory from that heavenly star ? 



ii. 

And he went forth again — again to strive, 

But not the fierce encounter to survive ; 

The tyrants hurled their thunder at his head — 

But tyrant's thunder cannot wake the dead ; 

And there he sleeps the eternal sleep — no stone 

To mark his resting place — the coarse grass grown* 

Upon a little hillock, shows the spot — 

What could a stone say more ? Alas ! Is not 

His maiden's heart to stone all petrified ? 

And will "not his dear memory more abide 

In grateful souls, with living thoughts enshrined ; 

She had no more concern with earth — she died — 

The loved one — and she slumbers at his side. 



THE HUNGARIAN NATION. 233 

III. 

They left a servant — only one — behind, 
Who came heart-broken ; but the griefs, the care, 
"Were all too heavy — all too hard to bear, 
And he sought death to soothe his troubled mind. 
At midnight, when the tomb-gates open wide, 
A wanderer sought the spot, where lay interred 
His love, and looking round on every side, 
Asked for the idol of his soul — nought stirred ; 
She was not there — she, too, at midnight toll, 
Had sought the vanished idol of her soul ; 
' Twas a vain seeking — like a wandering bird 
He, too, had fled — and from a foreign strand — 
Asks — Do the chains still hold my Fatherland ? 



THE HUNGABIAN NATION. 
Van-e egy mar oh fold a magyar Jiazdban. 

Is there in Magyar land a single spot 

Unsanctined by hero Magyar blood ? 
Has not that blood which warmed our sires im 
bued 

Our country's soil, — Alas ! the scathing blot 
Of shame is on their sons' ingratitude. 



234 THE HUNGARIAN NATION. 

Has falsehood superseded ancient truth ? 

Have the old lions given birth to hares ? 

fathers, rich in glory ! thro' your tears 
Can ye forgive the now degenerate youth 

That your proud name, but not your glory bears. 

Has not this race of their forefathers heard ? 

Can the old blood run purely through their veins? 

if a drop of that old blood remains, 
By some redeeming deed — some wakening word — 

' Twill usher Freedom in and break our chains. 



Why should we tarry ? Are we humbled down 
To very beasts of burden — satisfied 
To eat the bread, by despot hands supplied — 

Blanked in the records of the world's renown — 
Than so to live, 'twere better to have died. 



Shame on thee, outraged nation ! Shame on thee. 
Who once didst fill, in the heroic age 
Of history's pages, a transcendant page, 

And now thou kneelest in thine infamy, 

A poor slave victim on the vulgar stage. 






THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. 235 

And woe, and woe is mine ! who felt compelled 

To lift my hand to scourge my own dear mother ; 
sadly fated son ! and could no other 

Inflict those bleeding wounds — my heart rebelled 
. While my hand smote — I had no sire — no brother 

To help me. Shall I then be silent ? No ! 

Whate'er be mine, of suffering, sorrow, shame, 
In spite of heaven itself, my country's name, 
Until redeemed, I'll doom to waste and woe- 
Till her soul rises, or mine sinks below. 



THE KINGDOM OF LOYE. 

AN ALLEGORICAL DREAM. 

I dreamt a wondrous dream, 

I know not if in sleeping or awaking ; 

But that I dreamt I know, since no mistaking 

Of things that are for things that only seem 

Could fill the soul with such a burning glow, 

Or make my hand write tremblingly — as now. 

I lingered on a long and lonesome way ; 
But no ! it was not lingering, for I sped 
Hurriedly forward, tho' I seemed to stay — 



236 



THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. 



' Twas wearying — from the dullness and delay, 

And the monotony around me spread. 

And those who passed or dwelt there seemed imbued 

With the inaction of the solitude ; 

Passionless — satisfied — how I strove 

To leave that land behind me — to escape 

From that oppressive power whose every shape 

Was clad in doubt and gloom, but none in love. 

At last I reached the boundary of the sands, 
And there a diarnantine portal stands, 
With rainbow letters fringed with gold above — 
" Kingdom of Love ! " 

There was a " Welcome ! " waiting on the watch ; 
Raptured, I seized the latch — 
Opened the door, and boldly rushed within — 
And saw — heavenly vision ! all around — 
A more enchanting, more enrapturing scene 
Than poet or than painter ever found 
When they in earth have pictured heavenly gods, 
And a blest Paradise for their abodes. 

A wide and fertile vale, a fancy's dream, 
With myriad flowers, and rose trees towering high, 
As oaks towards the sky : 
And by soft song accompanied, a stream 
Gliding, but lingering, oft turned back to kiss 



THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. 237 

The banks it left, as if some thought of bliss — 

Some memory sweet were there — and everywhere 

Enchantments all -mysterious filled the air ; 

Odours and many coloured beams of light, 

Columns of crystal, gems reflecting bright, 

The grand romantic statues girding round 

That amphitheatre, and every height 

With clouds of pure translucent gold was crowned. 

Entranced, I looked around me — and forgot 

To close the open door — wildered I stood, 

Gazing upon that clear melodious flood, 

Whose magic magnet influence I could not 

Eesist, and nearer to its banks I drew — 

An emerald field, flower decked, I wandered thro' ; 

I saw young groups bending their heads toward 

Something attractive in the tangled sward, 

And picked up what to my eyes seemed either 

A needle or a feather. 

" What seek ye here ? " I asked. "A poisonous weed ! " 

One answered, and again inclined his head ; 

" And when discovered, tell me for what use?" 

" To press the foliage, and to sip its juice." 

I hastened back ; the disenchantment gave 

Strong impulse to my footsteps — tired I found 

A resting place on the rose-covered ground ; 

Beneath a tree I sat — to weariness a slave — 



238 THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. 

To disappointment — to disgust — strange fear — 

A wild perplexity had mastered me 

When I look'd upward, and saw hanging there, 

A youth upon the tree. 

Startled, I looked around — one, two, three, four — 

And each its own suspended victim bore, 

Swinging aloft ; — towards the stream I fled, 

Driven thitherward by dread, 

And sought wherewith to ford it. Then I cried, 

"Love's holy kingdom's on the farther side," 

And sprang into a boat ; I seized the rudder, 

And midst the rushes floating — with a shudder 

Saw many corpses — youths and maidens — seem 

Like frightened ghosts that leaped into the stream. 

I reached the distant bank — pale, trembling, weary, 
And images of terror dark and dreary — 
And poison-cups — and sorcery-cauldrons rose — 
There was no resting place and no repose. 
There spouted from the mountain-tops a flood 
Of brains and blood ; 
And on that blooming border 
Were death and discord, darkness and disorder. 
I ran about in wild despair, 
I ran about, lost and bewildered there ; 
One black, black canopy o'ershadowed all — 



world's history. 239 

Self-nmrder — hopeless misery — fall on fall ! 

But the meadows laughed out serene, 
And beautiful flowers shone thro' the green ; 
The musical stream, and the azure sky, 
They laughed out with a sparkling joy : 
Blossoming here, and blossoming there — 
Peace and blessedness everywhere ! 



WORLD'S HISTORY. 
VildgtorUnet I 



thou world's history ! thou book of wonders ! 
Each reads thy pages with a different breath ; 
Musical blessings here, there cursing thunders : 
Now smiles of life, and then the frowns of death. 
Thou bearest in one hand a flashing sword, 
" Go forth and conquer " is thy sovereign word, 
" For help is wanted — to the rescue — Go 1 " 
And to another — ■" Sheathe the sword, and know 
Thou draw'st it forth in vain, in vain thou strivest, 
Against inexorable fate thou drivest ; 
The world was doomed to slavery — and shall be — 
Thou canst not change nor check its destiny." 



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